


My Heart Starts Missing A Beat

by Loserlovely



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Again, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Gay Panic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oblivious Simon Snow, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, and they were ROOMMATES, baz is a soft idiot and i love him, im ignoring the fact that simon has wings oops, penny is the best friend we all need
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-24 11:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20704916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loserlovely/pseuds/Loserlovely
Summary: It figures that the only time I'm in a bookshop, I run into Baz Pitch for the first time in four years.He's standing in the aisle adjacent to mine, looking like he's about to attend someone's fucking funeral. Or rob the place....Simon and Baz never got together on Christmas eve, but fate has a way of bringing them together—and making them roomates again.Its just constant gay panic, repressed feelings, and mutual pining. That's it, that's the fic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Simon**

I should never have walked into this bookshop. 

I was supposed to never have to see him again. All tall and brooding and evil. I didn't want to ever look Baz Pitch in the face again. I even dropped out of Watford so I wouldn't have to deal with the embarrassment of being around him.

Well, not entirely. Baz wasn't the only reason I dropped out. Between losing my magic and seeing Ebb and The Mage die in the White Chapel, there was no way I could have stayed at Watford. Not having to share a room with Baz Pitch was just an added benefit of leaving.

If I had never defeated the Humdrum, if two people hadn't died, if I still had my magic, If I had _ stayed, _ Baz would have killed me the second I stepped foot on campus after winter break. I'm sure of it. 

Half way through his breakdown and successful attempt at arson, I panicked.

I had never seen Baz cry up until then. Baz has always been strong. Fucking ruthless. He never let anything get beneath his skin. But sitting there in the forest, fire burning all around us, he looked so _ broken _ , and I just wanted it to stop. I wanted him to be okay— I _ needed _ it. 

So I leaned in and kissed him. 

I didn't even let myself dwell on whether it was good or not. The second Baz started to kiss me back, I tore myself away from him. Suddenly I remembered what kissing another person _ meant, _ especially since that person was my worst enemy. And a bloke.

I was so distressed about it, I almost went off.

(Instead I sprouted wings and flew all the way to Penny's house in London. We still aren't entirely sure _ why _ or _ how _ I did so.)

It took a full twenty four hours for me to get it through my brain that_ I left him there _ and _ holy shit Baz might be dead. _ I made Penny call the Pitch residence to ask if Baz was okay. When she told me he was, I almost cried with relief.

I will _ never _forgive myself for leaving him. Ever.

That doesn't mean I don't hate him still. I _ really _hate him right now, standing in the aisle across from mine, browsing for something to read. 

Normally, I wouldn't be in a bookshop. I've never been a big reader— I can't bring myself to focus on the words for too long, or else everything gets jumbled together and mixed up in my head. That, and most books I've read are bloody boring. 

(Penny says it's just because I haven't found a story I like so far, but I'm not so sure.)

Instead of being here for my own enjoyment, I'm trying to find a book for Penny, as a sort of going away gift. She's leaving for America in about a week to go live with Micah and plan their wedding. I wanted to get her one of those awful romance novels she likes to go through and annotate. She claims she reads them because she likes to make fun of them, but I have an inkling that she just enjoys a cheesy romance every now and then.

It figures that the only time I'm in a bookshop, I run into Baz Pitch for the first time in four years. 

He's standing in the aisle adjacent to mine, looking like he's about to attend someone's fucking funeral. Or rob the place.

He's wearing a long black coat, the kind that looks like it could never be comfortable because the fabric is so scratchy. He's turned just so that I can get a good look at his jumper, which I thought was black too at first, until I took a closer look and found that it was actually just a deep green. 

What really sets me off are the godamned jeans he's wearing. 

Obviously it isn't the first time I've seen him in jeans. It's just, these are _ different. _ Black (of course), and tight in all the right places. Ripped at the knees in a fashionable way, unlike mine, that I've just had so long the material has started to rip.

His hair had gotten longer, but it's not slicked back like it used to, so he doesn't look like a gangster in a 1940's movie. Instead it's tied up in a little knot at the back of his head, that looks messy yet calculated at the same time.

I have to close my mouth. I hadn't realized I'd dropped my jaw at the sight if him.

He's inspecting the jacket of some hardcover. I don't think he's seen me, thank Merlin.

Merlin. Merlin and methuselah, I'm shaken. 

It's fine. _ It's fine. _ He doesn't even need to know I'm here, so long as I don't draw any attention to myself. 

Besides. I'm on a mission to get Penny's book. There's no need to get caught up over the fashion choices of my former roommate and nemesis.

It takes me a full seven minutes of looking in the romance section before I spot the book Penny had slyly mentioned she wanted. It has a long haired man biting his lip with his shirt half unbuttoned on the cover, and it's resting on the very top shelf.

Except it's one of those absurdly tall bookcases that go almost all the way to the ceiling. It's not even like the ceilings are high, but I still can't fucking reach it. I look around for a footstool or _ something _to get on top of, but there's nothing. Figures. I try jumping, but I just end up making a twat of myself by knocking about three separate books to the ground. 

At the sound of the paperbacks falling, I watch Baz's head swivel in my direction from the corner of my eye.

Fuck. 

I turn to look at him, because I'm a dumbass and I can't help it, and I can _ see him see me, _ and I instantly feel like a child about to be scolded by an adult. Like I've done something I shouldn't have.

"Snow?"

Shock splashes across his face, followed a beat later by annoyance. Like I've just inconvenienced him somehow by trying to reach this damn book.

I swallow. "Uh— hi. Baz. Hello."

_ You stupid motherfucker, Simon, hell's spells— _

"Get yourself together, Snow, this isn't a place to go around dueling bookcases," he sneers.

Merlin. I haven't missed his sneers a bit. I want to go over and knock it off his arrogant face. 

I shake my head. Where does he come up with this shit? 'Dueling bookcases'? Does he think of these one–liners off the top of his head? I bet he doesn't. I bet he has a fancy little journal locked up safe in his fucking mansion where he writes down every little nasty comment he can think of so he has them at the ready. Just in case he needs to be a prick to someone. 

Plotting son of a bitch.

"Piss off, I was just trying to reach something," I say.

Baz raises one of his perfect, thick eyebrows like the Disney Villain he was born to be. "Aw, can't little Snow reach the top shelf?" He mocks. "It's funny, Snow, I was under the impression that you were illiterate."

I grit my teeth and stand my ground, like I would whenever I was getting ready to fight him. "It's for Penny."

"Right," he says. "How is Bunce doing? Still with that American of hers?"

"They're engaged."

"How lovely."

Its silent for a long time, but then Baz starts to walk my way, and I'm about ready to have a fucking stroke right here and now. If I still had my magic, it'd be leaking everywhere. 

When he's in my general vicinity, I think he'll start to throw punches, but he doesn't. Instead he stops walking completely and says, "What are you trying to reach?" 

"What?"

"Crowley, have you lost your hearing?" He rolls his eyes. "I'm asking what the title of the book is so I can hand it to you. I'm taller, I can reach higher than you."

I gape at him. This has to be a plot. The clothes, the location, the offering to help. He's had four years to think of a plot, and this is it. Any moment now, something is going to jump out at me and try to slaughter me in the middle of Waterstones.

Against my better judgement, I tell him the name of the book. If I don't, I'll be here all night trying to get to it. I'm too stubborn to actually ask a worker for help. 

I think he'll lift the book above my head and make me jump for it, because he's an arsehole like that, but he doesn't. He just looks at me like I'm dirty beneath his feet, and hands it to me.

(To him, I _ am _ dirt. Baz's family are basically the royals of the World of Mages.)

(Rich tossers.)

"Thanks," I mumble after too many beats of heavy silence.

Baz nods once before striding off dramatically, which makes his long black coat look more like a cape. 

Ridiculous. Absolutely bloody ridiculous. 

It's not a small shop by any means. Its three stories tall— but miraculously, I end up in front of him at checkout.

"Pick a different line," I mumble, whipping my head to look at him.

"You can't make me."

"Is that a challenge?"

"It doesn't matter if it was a challenge, Snow, everyone with more than one brain cell knows that I would win. Maybe that's your problem— you don't _ have _any brain cells."

_ I'm in a public place, if I punch him I'll be arrested. I'm in a public place, if I punch him I'll be arres _ted. I repeat that in my head as I tear my gaze away from his.

It's my go to check out, so I walk up to the cashier. Except I'm so flustered because he's standing there and I _ know _he's watching me, so I stutter through the whole transaction. I can feel the blood rushing to my face, and I'm probably beat red by the time it's over.

I don't know why I wait at the door for him, but I do. I stand there looking like a twit, like he's my mother and I'm not allowed to leave without him.

"What the fuck is your problem?" I growl when he walks past me. 

"What exactly are you talking about Snow? I'm not doing anything. The only problem here is _ you. _" 

I jog to catch up as we turn onto the sidewalk outside of the shop, and fall into stride with him. "You were staring at me."

"That's hardly a crime, Snow."

It's freezing out, but I'm still in shorts, because I always run too hot. The air still nips at my legs, but I don't mind very much. I hardly notice over my annoyance.

"Yeah, well. Why did you help me then?" I prompt. 

"It would have been disservice to society if I let you go around smashing into things."

"Bullshit."

"Merlin, always so vulgar," he spits. "Why are you still following me, Snow?"

I shrug. 

I _ don't _know why I'm following him. I just feel like I have to. To make sure I foil whatever plot he's got brewing in that head of his.

"Well stop, Snow. You have to have something better to do."

I shrug. Again. "I really don't."

**Baz**

I can't handle this. I _ can't. _

I knew I shouldn't have helped him. The old Baz wouldn't have, the one that shared a room with him for seven and a half years.

I haven't changed much, but Fiona insists that I've gotten soft. 

Maybe I have. Maybe that's why I handed him that damn book.

He's so close to my right now, and I can feel his body warmth radiating off of him. It makes me want to pull him close and never let go. 

He looks good. Still _ so good. _

I haven't seen him in four years, yet he's even more gorgeous than I remember. I've missed his moles and broad shoulders and the way he virtually growls at anything that makes him angry.

His magic is gone, but it hardly makes him any less intoxicating to be around.

So bloody gorgeous. 

I shouldn't be thinking like this. Not after four years. Not so soon after breaking up with my boyfriend, now ex boyfriend, after a three year relationship.

I need Simon to leave. 

"Then _ find something. _I don't need you following me around like a lost puppy," I snap.

"This is the way to my flat. I'd have to follow you no matter what."

"Then walk ten paces behind me."

"No."

I scowl, but I let him stay next to me. It's been so long, too long. I deserve a little indulgence.

It isn't very crowded out this evening. The sun's alrighty set and the overhead clouds are threatening to flurry— most people have probably opted to take the tube. The only reason I didn't was because my flat is just down the street, and the tube would have taken longer. Also, I've decided the tube can go fuck itself. It's dirty and full of people, and I tend to avoid places with those criterias.

We walk in silence until we're outside my building. He stops when I stop, and it's like a punch in the face to look him in his eyes.

"You're on your own now, Snow, this is where I live."

He bites his lip, and I just about die then and there, it's so fucking adorable. 

"About that. Uh, see, I kind of… I lied?" He says it like it's a question. "This isn't the way to my flat… I uh—well, I don't actually know where I'm at."

Aleister Crowley. Of course.

"What the fuck did you follow me for then?" I bite.

"Had to make sure you weren't plotting."

"What in Merlin's name would I be plotting, Snow?"

He shrugs. Sometimes I think that's all he knows how to do.

I turn to walk into the lobby of the building, but he grabs my arm. "Wait! Wait, I'm sorry. I need to look up directions to my flat and it's—well it's bloody cold out. Can I come in? To your flat?"

I should say no. 

_ I should say no, I should say no, I should say no. _

There's no good that can come from this. 

Snow's a human bonfire, and I'm standing too close to the flames. Always too close. I've almost burned because of him before— both metaphorically and literally. He left me to die that night, he didn't spare me any mercy. 

I should refuse. I should leave him here just like he left me.

"Fine. Come on, then."

**Simon **

"Merlin, Snow. Take off your shoes, you'll get the carpet all filthy," Baz hisses the minute we enter his flat.

I do. 

"Do you want tea?" He asks, pulling off his black coat. Something tells me it's an automatic thing for him to ask, because as soon as he realizes what he says, he looks ready to slap himself.

I nod, to be polite, but it's half hearted. I'm too distracted by the room around me to give a proper, verbal response.

Baz's flat is _ nothing _ like I imagined it. 

Not that I spent time imagining it. It's just, on the way up here, I was a tad surprised he lived in a normal building. Not a mansion, not somewhere fit for celebrities and footballers. Just a normal flat in London. Then I figured his place must be full of expensive furniture with gothic accents here and there, like his room back in Hampshire. Maybe there would be a gargoyle or two and a shrine to the devil. 

It's nowhere near that, though.

Its clean, if a tad cluttered. Not the bad sort of clutter— the kind you would see on those television programs where people keep meaningless junk until it fills the room. No, this is more of a _ cozy _cluttered, which is shocking to say the least.

There's throw blankets and a quilt draped over the sofa, which is a dark green. One wall is dedicated to a bookcase that's practically overflowing with books. It has small plants resting on the top shelf, all in different colored pots with little stripes on them. There's also a space on the bottom that is dedicated to vinyl records, though I'm not spotting a record player anywhere.

Despite the mundanity of his home, what throws me off the most is the smell.

It's the same old cedar and bergamot, but this time with a twist of cigarette smoke. It smells just like I remember him smelling, and for a second I'm transported back to our room at Watford. 

For a microsecond, I'm back _ home. _

It's like being blasted with nostalgia and melancholy all at once and I have to shove it down so I don't start to tear up in the middle of his fucking sitting room.

(Thankfully, I don't.)

I feel awkward just standing in the entrance to his home, and it reminds me eerily of when I showed up at his house four years ago, covered in muck and snow.

I think the same thing now as I did then.

_ What the hell am I doing here? _

Why did I ask to come in? Not even thirty minutes ago I was ready to punch Baz in his perfect cheekbones.

I decide to follow him to his kitchen area before he starts calling me out on my awkward standing and staring. The kitchen is small, a little outdated. Boxes marked with messy cursive that I can barely read fill the counter space.

"Are you moving?" I ask, gesturing stupidly at the boxes.

Baz shakes his head. "They're my aunt's. She moved out about two weeks ago, but she still has these hanging around here. Too busy to move them." 

"So you're out of a roommate then?" 

He nods, stiffly dropping teabags into two mugs. I'm surprised how much hostility he can force into the action, but it _ is _ Baz. He could turn anything into an excuse to be a prick.

"Do you have anyone in mind? For your roommate?" I mentally chide myself for even asking. 

"Not at the moment, no. I don't know anyone who's looking for a place to live." 

**Baz**

I must be mental. I must be, it's the only explanation I can come up with for inviting my teenage crush into my flat and _ making him tea. _

"I get that. With Penny leaving for America, I'm out of a roommate as well." 

I nod shortly, putting a copious amount of sugar and milk in my tea after it's done steeping. I have to, or else it just tastes like warm piss. 

(Snow gives me judgemental glace, but I don't give a shit. This is my flat, I can take my tea however I damn well please.)

Once we're both standing in silence, sipping our tea, and I can almost trick myself into thinking that he doesn't hate me. That there's something between us, and this is a normal activity. Me making him tea, him standing in my kitchen.

Merlin. It's overwhelming.

"Look up the way to your flat," I snap at him, cutting through the silence. "I've had enough of you for tonight."

"Christ, I haven't even finished my tea yet. Give me a second," he says.

"How long does it take you to finish a cup of tea? You'll be through with it by the time you call one of your chav friends to pick you up," I snarl. 

Snow sets down his mug and pulls out his mobile, mumbling something resembling a "fuck you" and he unlocks it. 

Within an hour, he's gone. 

I feel like the air's been knocked out of my lungs. Like Snow made a dead spot in my living room. I would be lying if I said I had never thought of him since Watford, but I thought I was somewhat over him. Especially since I was in a relationship with another man for three out of the four years Snow and I have spent apart.

Seeing him walk out of my door felt like losing him all over again. It dragged out feelings I spent so long trying to extinguish, trying to shove down somewhere.

_ Crowley. _I'm so fucking weak for him. I'm never going to be enough, never going to be as mad for anyone as I am for Simon fucking Snow. 

I do what any normal, incredibly gay and sad person would do— I get drunk off my arse and message the one person I'm weak for. The one person that I _ really _should not be texting.

Simon Snow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Simon**

Three hours after I leave Baz's flat, I get a follow request from him on Instagram.

Penny and I are eating Thai takeaway on our sofa, watching a baking show when it happens. Well, I'm watching it. Penny is just commenting on the ugly display of icing the contestants put on the cakes and how even she could do better, despite the fact that she doesn't know shit about baking. 

I've been tip toeing around Penny all night. I don't want to spoil the surprise book for her, but I can't just _ not _ tell her that I ran into Baz. It's Penny—I can't keep anything from her.

But any secrecy I had surrounding my whereabouts earlier this afternoon is gone now. Penny watched me open my Instagram, she saw me read the notification from Baz. She knows something is up.

"What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost. You haven't, have you?" 

"Um. Well. I—" 

Penny silences me with a single glance. It's so intimidating, even her glasses aren't enough to buffer it.

I consider giving her a halfhearted lie and tell her that I'm just having an off day, but she'll see right through it. So, finally, I give in and tell her everything—that I saw Baz at Waterstones and followed him into his flat and drank his tea. That he _ wants to follow me on Instagram. _

When I've finished, she looks like she's about to laugh.

"Merlin's tits, Si. What were you _ thinking? _" She asks, thoroughly amused.

I groan. "I wasn't. I wasn't fucking thinking."

"Clearly not." 

"What do I do?" I ask, holding up my mobile. I can't look at the screen. Just the sight of the little red notification bubble makes me anxious. 

Why does he want to follow me? I'm not sure I want him snooping around my page. It's more of a spam account than anything—It's basically just pictures of dogs I see on the street that are too adorable _ not _ to document. That, and pictures of food. And I've only got about one hundred followers, but none that regularly interact with me. Just people from Watford. A few work friends. Most people probably think my dog pictures are stupid and annoying, but I don't care what _ they _ think; I care what Baz thinks. I know I shouldn't, obviously, but trust Baz to make fun of me just living my life, looking at cute animals.

(He probably eats them, anyway.)

"Give it here," Penny demands, holding her hand out for my mobile.

I hand it to her, because I know she'll accept the request, and I'm not brave enough to do it on my own.

Within a matter of minutes, Baz has allowed me to follow him back, which leads to Penny and I stalking his account.

There aren't many posts. None are selfies, but most have him pictured in them. Some are him with Dev and Niall, or blokes in football uniforms. A few are just pictures of expensive beers and books and posh cars. Typical things you would find on someone like Baz's page.

There is _ one _interesting post on here, though. It's from last year, and it's just a bloke with dark brown hair and green eyes, sitting at a cafe with a single red rose on the table in front of him

The caption is, _ 'Happy Valentine's Day, my love.' _

"Oh _ shit, _" I whisper. 

Penny doesn't respond—just clicks on the tag that takes us to the guy's profile. 

Andrew. His name is Andrew. 

At first his page is normal, but once we go back about six months, pictures of Baz start popping up. Selfies of the two of them. Pictures of just Baz, sleeping on a sofa or walking with his back turned to the camera or caught mid laugh. All the captions are something along the lines of "how could I be so lucky?" and the other sappy lines, the kind you say about the person you're dating.

Weird. _ So fucking weird. _

I'm more surprised that Baz is dating someone than I am surprised that he's gay. Of course, I am a _ little _ shocked that he's gay—he did flirt with Agatha for years, after all. But the thought of him being genuinely affectionate with someone? That far surpasses his sexuality on the 'I didn't see that coming' scale. 

"This isn't our business," Penny says as she scrolls further down the feed.

She's right. It _ isn _ ' _ t _ our business. 

I don't have any time to feel guilty about it, though, because as soon as she says it, I get a notification from Baz. Like she's summoned him, almost.

_ Basilton.pitch has requested to send you a message. Do you accept? _

I can see the message before I accept, and it throws me through a loop. It made the whole situation feel even more like someone is going to jump out at me with a camera, telling me that I've been pranked.

  


_ Basilton.pitch: u need a rommmate yes ?? _

  


"Fuck fuck _ fuck," _ I groan.

I manage to pry it out of her hands right as she clicks 'Accept'. 

I groan.

_ snow.salisbury: yeah, why?? _

Penny and I stare at my mobile for _ three entire minutes _ while Baz types.

_ Basilton.pitch: same .. _

_ snow.salisbury: ok cool? Why are u texting me _

_ Basilton.pitch: let's live _

_ Basilton.pitch: us both. Together. At my flat. _

_ snow.salisbury: are you drunk? _

I figure he must be drinking and Penny agrees. There's no way Baz would ever want to live with me again, and there's even less of a chance that he would ever text with such awful grammar and spelling. Especially if he were sober. 

"It's not a bad offer," Penny reasons. "You've lived together before."

"Pen. _ He tried to kill me. _ I can't live with him again! This is obviously a plot."

Penny rolls her eyes as she watches me type over my shoulder.

_ Basilton.pitch: you fuckn fucker _

_ Basilton.pitch: I may have had a some whiskey earlierbut I'm fine _

_ snow.salisbury: Baz. Youre drunk. stop texting _

_ Basilton.pitch: snow _

_ Basilton.pitch: we a both need roomates so why tf not _

_ snow.salisbury: doesnt matter, go have a lie down. You're smashed. _

_ Basilton.pitch: am not _

_ snow.salisbury: you wouldnt be texting me if you were sober _

_ Basilton.pitch: fuck o ffsnow just move in you absolute tradgetytygesty _

  


Penny has stopped paying attention, because she's too busy trying not to piss herself with laughter. Of course this situation is _ hilarious _to her. She's not the one getting drunk texts from her nemesis at a quarter to seven in the evening. 

I shake my head. I'm too frazzled to tell her off.

_ snow.salisbury: I'll think about it, k? _

_ Basilton.pitch: okay _

I stop texting after that. In fact, I throw my phone (gently) on the floor and press my head in my hands, letting out a small grunt.

"What. The fuck."

"Honestly Si, I'm as lost as you are," she says, laughter somewhat contained. "Are you going to say yes?" 

"Morgana, Pen. _ No. _Why would I? He doesn't mean it. He's drunk."

Penny shrugs, a habit she picked up from me. "You never know. Maybe he's just an honest drunk." 

That's not true, because I've seen him drunk before. Baz used to stumble into our room late at night, far more plastered than anyone has a right to be. He would either pass out on his bed right away, or he'd mumble something about how awful his life was.

I would just lay there, pretending to sleep, because I didn't want to deal with his stupid drunk crisis. 

At the time, his life seemed perfect. I didn't fully grasp how hard it must be to be a vampire, or how much he hated being the same creature that killed his mother. I get that now, at least. After everything that happened with his mum.

(Maybe I still wouldn't have cared. I did hate him.)

(I _ do _ hate him. Present tense.)

"Besides," Penny says, "You _ do _ need somewhere to live. You can't pay the rent here on your own," 

That's true—the rent where we live now is a bloody fortune. I don't really want another roommate though. If it were up to me, I'd just live with Penny my whole life. 

Well, maybe not. It'd be a tad creepy if I just lived in her and Micah's basement, all alone. But if we were neighbors? I could handle that.

I don't know how I'm going to manage when she's gone. I'm going to miss her like I miss magic.

When we would go our separate ways at the end of the school year, I would always miss her. But this is different. I'll see her again for the wedding in three months, and then that'll be it. She'll have moved away for good. We'll probably only see each other for a week or so once a year, which is the most devastating thing I can think of right now. The fact that our apartment is filled with boxes of her stuff, ready to be stored off in a cargo plane somewhere makes my heart sink. 

I sound selfish. I don't mean to.

I'm plenty happy for her and Micah. They're the kind of people who fit together so perfectly that not even distance can stop them—but of course, it's better for them to be together. In Chicago. 

Far, far away from me. 

Again, I know it sounds selfish, but Penny really is the only thing that holds me together sometimes. She was my first friend growing up, and she's the only person that's loved me enough to stick around. She even got me through losing my magic. 

Penny knows what to do when I get in a depressive state. She knows exactly how to comfort me on my Bad Days, or when I start to get too panicked. Penny even knew how to cheer me up when my ex girlfriend, Katie, cheated on me. She took the entire bloody day off work, and we sat on the sofa together eating ice cream and watching Red Dwarf.

(Also, she's half of my impulse control. I'll probably be dying my hair a bright pink and getting my eyebrow pierced two weeks after she's gone, because there'll be nobody to talk me out of it.)

(She'd probably support the pink hair, but she'd know how to dye it properly, unlike me.)

Penny slaps both hands down on her thighs and stands, snapping me out of my sadness. 

"Well, your talking-about-Baz allowance has run out for the day! I'm tired of listening to you go on about him. Too much like fifth year," she says. "You up for a board game or something? I don't think I have Monopoly packed up yet."

"You can't play monopoly with two people," I point out, a lazy grin spreading across my face.

"Of course we can!"

"Not properly," I say.

"Since when does that matter? I'm fairly sure we don't play by the rules anyway."

"Penny, we'll be awake until, like, three a.m. if we start now."

She smiles mischievously. "You're just afraid I'll win."

I smile back. "You always do, Pen." 

I'm gonna bloody miss her. 

  
  


**Baz **

I wake up lying on my sofa, in nothing but my pants and a hoodie.

Splendid.

After a full fifteen minutes of not moving from the sofa, out of fear of vomiting, I finally managed to stumble my way into the bathroom and swallow an unhealthy amount of painkillers. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I look a wreck. Bags under my eyes, hair a mess, skin even greyer than usual. Even my fangs have popped; I never fed last night. 

I've missed most of my classes for the day—and even if I hadn't, there's no way I would make it through the day. I'm far too hungover to sit through lectures.

I walk to my room, only to go back to the sofa for my duvet, which I dragged out last night before I became too drunk to stand. I'm considering another round of sleeping on the sofa, back pain be damned, when I spot my mobile on the floor.

_ Fucking brilliant. _

As memories from last night start to rush back to me, I glance at the window and wonder if the fall would be enough to put me out of my misery. 

I can't remember what I said to Simon, but I know I texted him. I'm praying, to any higher power that listens, that I didn't make a fool of myself, but I know I have. I actually cringe when I click onto Instagram, not wanting to read what I sent. 

It's worse than I had expected, but not as bad as it could have been. At least I didn't confess my feelings for him—instead I just asked him to move into my bloody flat.

_ Smooth, Basilton. _

I send him a quick apology text, and consider getting up right now and driving to the coast so I could walk straight into the English Channel, never to be seen again. Surely I'd be missed by some, but they'd understand once they discovered how stupid I've made myself look.

I'm in the middle of contemplating my watery grave when my mobile dings.

_ snow.salisbury: it's fine _

_ snow.salisbury: uhhhhhmmm hey but are you still offering? _

_ snow.salisbury: about the roommate thing _

Even in my hungover state, my heart actually flutters at the possibility he accepts my offer, even though I _ wasn't _serious. At least, I'm not now that I have my wits about me. Somewhat. 

I don't know why I even suggested it. Did intoxicated me really believe that if I lived with Snow, I'd somehow manage to seduce him? That didn't get me anywhere the first time. I doubt it would work now. 

_ Basilton.pitch: seriously? I didn't think you would be interested in that. _

_ snow.salisbury: yeah but it makes sense tho _

_ snow.salisbury: we both have the same problem. why not fix it? you know? _

_ Basilton.pitch: you realize that you are offering to live with me. Willingly. _

_ snow.salisbury: your the one that offered _

_ snow.salisbury: I'm just asking if I can. Like if I dont find somewhere soon I'll be on the streets _

_ Basilton.pitch: *you're _

_ Basilton.pitch: would you pay rent? Do you have a job? Are you going to be playing shit music at one in the morning? Are you going to loudly shag random people you bring home? _

_ snow.salisbury: yes I'll pay rent, yes I've got a job, and my music isnt shit. _

_ snow.salisbury: cant promise about that last one tho ;^) _

_ Basilton.pitch: I'm serious, Snow _

_ snow.salisbury: so am I _

_ snow.salisbury: id really appreciate it could move in _

_ snow.salisbury: id stay out of your hair and all that _

I'm too hungover for this. Any of it. I know that it's all my fault, but it's easier to blame him for even existing. If Simon Snow didn't exist, my life would be hundreds of times easier. 

(That's not true, though. If I had never laid eyes on the vision that is Simon Snow, I would never be able to imagine what it feels like to genuinely be alive.)

My mind starts to fill with thoughts of Snow. Of his hair and his moles and his stupid smile. The way his knuckles used to turn white when he gripped the hilt of his sword. How those same knuckles have connected with my face, again and again and again. 

Snow destroys everything he touches, just about.

Especially me. 

But I've always been something of a masochist—maybe that's why I tell him that he can move in as soon as next week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello I'm very bad at writing text messages, sorry about that


	3. Chapter 3

**Baz**

It takes two weeks of living together for Snow and I to work ourselves into a comfortable set of rules.

No, comfortable isn't the right word. We've established  _ unspoken  _ rules. We avoid each other the most we can. We never lounge in the same room together for too long. We lock the doors to our bedrooms. We only speak if it's about something important, which it almost never is.

It isn't exactly hard to follow these rules. I'm constantly busy with school and work, and Snow hardly ever leaves has room unless it's for food or the toilet. It's like living with a bloody numpty.

(Which is tolerable. I don't mind the quiet, and Simon doesn't stumble into the flat pissed out of his mind at one a.m. like Fiona used to, which is a fucking blessing.)

As much as it pains the little lovesick devil inside my brain, these rules are important. Breaking them, for me at least, would mean that I could become even more desperate for Snow than I already am. For him, it just means he's being a normal functioning human for once in his life, which would probably break his brain. Snow is incapable of being normal. 

(Normal as in normal behavior, not normal as in Normal. Even without his magic, he's still a mage. He's still the Chosen One.)

I can't, for the life of me, figure out why he's decided to break  _ multiple _ of our unspoken rules this evening.

"So what do you do?"

He says it as he slumps down on the other end of the sofa, opening a bag of sea salt flavoured crisps.

I don't want to have this conversation tonight. Or ever. I've had a tiring day, and right now, all I want to do is sit here on my laptop and finish writing my blog post.

Fiona takes the piss out of me for running a blog, but I can't bring myself to give a shit. It's the only real hobby I have, and I need  _ something _ to do in my freetime other than getting plastered and wallowing in self pity. I have quite a large following as well—nothing major, but it's not exactly minor either. I mostly post about music, or books I've read. Once in a blue moon, I'll slip in something about football.

It's therapeutic, in a way. I undoubtedly like it much better than whatever small talk I'm about to engage in.

I continue typing, eyes trained on the screen, as I answer him. "You mean aside from vandalising churches and beating up small children?"

"Piss off. I meant, like, what d'ya study at uni?" 

"Musical Education. "

" _ Musical  _ Education?" The extra emphasis on 'musical' is what makes me look away from my laptop to meet his eyes. 

Snow's not even attempting to hide the genuine shock that's written all over his face.

I can't fathom why. He knows I play the violin—he used to wait outside the room where I took my lessons back at Watford. He's heard me play countless times. Besides, he's bound to have come across some of the sheet music I have lying about. It's not exactly hidden.

Even if it was hidden, Snow would have found it. He's been snooping through my belongings whenever I'm out of the flat. He thinks I don't notice, but his investigation skills are lacking—he never puts anything back in its right place, and he never does anything discreetly. Once I caught him thoroughly examining a pair of my socks, right in the middle of the sitting room.

(I snatched them out of his hands without asking for an explanation. I'd rather not know.) 

"What, is there something wrong with wanting to teach music, Snow? Should I have asked your opinion before deciding what I studied in school?"

"No I–I just thought you would want to teach something, erm, more important?"

"Music is important," I spit.

"Right, yeah, of course. It's just—last I heard, you got into LSE or something," he racks a hand through his curls, and I wish I could reach out and do it for him. "I thought you would teach marketing or something." 

"I  _ did _ get into LSE, it just didn't stick. So I transferred somewhere else."

"Oh," he says. Then, just when I think the conversation has died, he adds, "What happened? Er, no, I mean… well, what kind of music?" 

I slam the lid of my laptop shut.

"Crowley, Snow, what is this? Are you having some sort of crisis over my career path?" 

"No," he scoffs. "Just interested. It's more than you ask me about  _ my  _ life." 

"That's because I don't care about your life," I snap. 

He looks genuinely offended by this, twisting his lips into a pout and scrunching his brows. He's sitting with his knees pressed to his chest like he used to when I would push him to tears in first year, his bag of crisps long finished. 

Merlin and Methuselah, I just want to throw myself onto him and kiss that pout right off his face. Then lick the crisp crumbs off his lips. 

I spent all afternoon thinking about him.

It's awful of me, because my ex boyfriend Andrew and I still hook up every now and then, whenever we're both feeling too desperate and lonely. We've even been talking about getting back together. I shouldn't be so infatuated with Snow if I'm planning to throw myself back into a committed relationship.

Despite how I mad I still am for Simon, being with Andy again does sound quite nice.

I do love Andy.  _ Did  _ love him. He's sweet without being too soft. He's fit. Smart. He's got the singing voice of a bloody angel. But he's just someone to get me off, now. The spark isn't there anymore. I don't have the same feelings for him now that I did when we first met two years ago, and he deserves someone who loves him completely.

Still. I care about him a good deal, and having someone to talk to at the end of the day sounds nice. Domestic, even. Especially if that other person isn't my ex-nemesis whom I've tried to kill. Especially if that other person  _ hasn't  _ broken my nose twice.

Andy can give me that domestic life that I crave oh-so-much.

He was the one to cut it off, but he's apologized repeatedly, telling me it was a mistake. He's said before that he'd gladly take me back, all I need to do is say the word. The worst part is, I probably would have taken him back, if I hadn't ran into Snow. If I wasn't bloody living with him.

I'm in over my head.

  
  
  


**Simon **

Baz is doing the thing with his eyes where he looks like he wants to slap me—or drink my blood. I can never tell the two expressions apart. Either way, I'm probably getting on his nerves. 

_ Good. _ He's getting on my nerves as well. 

We  _ live together.  _ Why shouldn't he care about what I study? What job I have? For all he knows, I could have spent the past four years selling cocaine on the streets and committing murders. 

(I haven't, for the record.)

Well, I don't care if he doesn't care. That's never stopped me before, and it isn't going to stop me now. 

"It's the violin then, yeah? That's the instrument you play?" I ask. 

He's back at his laptop again. How does he type so fast? He isn't even looking at the screen, the wanker.

"Yes, I play the violin," and then, nonchalantly, "But other instruments, as well. Piano, for example. Occasionally I'll play the viola, if there's one around." 

I don't know what a viola even is, so I just nod.

_ Keep the conversation alive, Simon. _

"Tell me more," I say. 

_ Tell me more?  _ Really? 

I mentally slap myself. I'll probably slap myself for real later, because  _ tell me more  _ sounds like the cheapest line I could have possibly spit out. Like we're on a bloody blind date.

Surprisingly, though, it works; Baz must decide to give in, because he starts to give me a brief rundown of his musical teaching aspirations.

He's giving lessons to beginning violinists at a music shop somewhere in west London right now; that's what he does for work. Later on, though, he wants to teach at a school, preferably Watford. He says the music department there has really started to boom since Mitali Bunce took over a few years back.

(I let it slip when he indirectly insults The Mage for "not paying any attention" to the fine arts.) 

(Even though I've accepted by now that he wasn't what I cropped him out to be, I still feel the need to defend my former mentor. The Mage had a lot on his plate when he was running Watford; I wouldn't be paying attention to the fine arts either.)

Everything he's said so far has been in a really bitchy tone, like I understand nothing, but at least he's telling me.

I just continue to nod like a ninny, because I  _ don't _ understand anything. Not about music, anyway. My musical vocabulary only consists of the word  _ crescendo, _ and I only know that one because I used to think it was a type of pastry.

(Penny was the one to break it to me that it was not, in fact, a baked good, and she couldn't look me in the eye for the rest of the day without going hysterical.)

It's fine, though. I'll keep acting like I know what he's talking about if it means he'll  _ keep going. _ This must be the most Baz has talked to me all week. 

No, scratch that. This is the most he's talked to me about anything other than his mother's murderer, full stop.

Its jarring, to see him acting so  _ normal. _ Not normal like this is how he always is, but normal as in he's conveying  _ actual human emotion.  _ Emotion that isn't anger or arrogance or dissatisfaction.

Baz is incapable of being normal, and not just because he's a Mage and a vampire. No, Baz couldn't ever be normal, because he's just too... _ Baz. _ Too fancy. Too graceful. Too smart. Too good looking. No one else is on this fucker's level—it's hard to imagine him being passionate about something as mundane as being an orchestra teacher. It is nice to see him this way, despite it all. Even though he's mocking me for my music taste, even though he's being a total wanker, this conversation has knocked down a wall between us, which I've been dying for.

Before I know it, we aren't talking about just university anymore. Now I'm asking things like what kind of songs he likes to play, and then it shifts to who his favourite artists are, who  _ my  _ favourite artists are, and he tells me off for implying that I like Brittney Spears. 

It's almost as if we're friends. Like we've both forgotten how much we loath each other. Like we've neglected the fact that we kissed and didn't talk for four years.

It's getting later and later now. He's long since asked me what I'm doing at uni, and laughed when I told him I'm studying maths, the hypocrite. 

We talk for so long, I don't realize I've dozed off until I've woken up.

I'm curled in on myself, but I'm still taking up most of the space on the sofa. My left leg is stretched out a bit, so it's touching Baz's thigh, which I quickly remove (he would never let me have it there if he were awake). Baz is fast asleep, leaning on the arm of the sofa, arms and legs tucked neatly into his chest. He looks like a painting, with his hair falling on his face and his lips parted slightly. 

I spot my mobile on the cushion next to me, and instinctively turn it on, not letting myself have time to regret how bright it is in the dark room.

It's 4:56 a.m.

_ Fantastic _ . Today is Saturday, so I don't have uni, but I do have work. Albeit my shift doesn't start until two p.m., something tells me my back is going to be sore all day from falling asleep on this bloody sofa.

I consider just staying here and going back to sleep, despite the growing ache in my shoulders, but ultimately I find myself standing in front of Baz, nudging his shoulder.

"Nhhm," he mumbles intellectually, not even opening his eyes. He must not have woken up fully.

"Baz?" I whisper.

I forgot how much he likes to sleep—at Watford, I was always awake before him. I guess I was a sort of alarm clock, because I would always slam things about as loud as I could until he finally got up. 

I shove his shoulder a bit harder now, and all I get in return is the softest  _ "No," _ I've ever heard in my life. I almost giggle at how childish he sounds—like I'm the parent, ready to carry him to his room and tuck him in. 

Fuck that. He's probably too heavy.

After a bit, I decide shaking him awake isn't going to work, so I tuck some of his hair behind his ear and away from his cheek, promptly flicking him in the face.

(His skin is like ice. Must be a vampire thing.)

"What?" Baz blinks, waking with a start.

"We feel asleep," I explain.

He sits up straighter and puts his head in his hands, and for a second I think he'll just fall back asleep like that, but then he stands up, his head knocking right into my chin.

"Shit!"

"Why were you standing right in front of me?" He snaps.

I rub my chin where he hit it. "Why didn't you open your eyes when you stood up?" I shoot back. 

He doesn't answer, and we both walk down the hall back to our rooms, grumbling in pain. 

"Goodnight, Snow." 

"Night, Baz." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baz ends up a music major, I'll die on this hill


	4. Chapter 4

**Simon**

"The wedding is in _ three months _ and we haven't even decided on the colors!" Penny's voice shrills through the phone. 

"What happened to the burgundy and white?" I ask. "I thought you and Micah had agreed on that."

"His sister! That's what happened!" Penny fumes. "We were giving her the details, you know, since she's our photographer, and she told us that burgundy and white are too _ cliche. _ And then Micah agreed! He suggested that we change the colors, and then we fought, and then finally I gave in because I don't want my engagement to be called off because of a _ color scheme. _I swear to Merlin, his sister just said it because she wants my life to be a living hell."

I chuckle and shake my head. "I'm sorry, Pen."

It's been two months since she's moved. Two months of not seeing Penny, two months of staying up late or waking up early so I can phone her, every fucking day. Two months until her wedding day.

(Fuck. That feels weird to say.)

"It's fine," Penny says from the other line. "You've booked the tickets though, right? For the seventh of April?" 

"Yup."

"Good. If you didn't make my wedding, Simon, I would kill you." 

I laugh. "Dramatic much?"

"Give me a break, I'm stressed."

I apologize. Again. 

"It's fine," she says (again.) "How is life with Basil going? Still at each other's necks?"

He's out right now—he will be for the next two days. He's out celebrating with his aunt for her birthday somewhere in Scotland, presumably to get smashed, which means the flat is _ all mine. _ I am blissfully, beautifully alone. 

Sort of.

I thought I would be enjoying the solitude, but instead I'm just lonely. Baz and I have, surprisingly, talked quite a lot in the weeks that followed our late night chat. It's been nice.

Obviously, these talks aren't meaningful. Half the time, they barely pass as civil; we still fight quite a bit, now that we're actually speaking to each other. They're never anything serious, though. Just silly little rows over things like talking during a movie or a football match.

(It's a nightmare watching football with him. I like to just sit and enjoy the game, whereas he likes to analyze _ every little move _. Then he gets mad if something goes wrong and almost throws his laptop across the room.)

(It's the only time I ever see him get properly angry at something that isn't me. It's almost refreshing.)

Still. The eerie silence around here is starting to get to me.

Knowing Baz is in the flat puts me at ease, surprisingly. Hearing him put the kettle on, or the soft hum of the music he plays in his room, or the sound of clicking as he types on his laptop—it's the sound of Baz. Not the cruel Baz I knew at Watford, but the Baz I know now. 

Behind the Scenes Baz, as I've been calling him. It's the Baz that pulls his hair into a knot when it isn't cooperating. It's the Baz that laughs at me when I do something stupid, but not in a malicious way, but in a 'you idiot, why am I friends with you?' sort of laugh.

Because we are. Friends. In our own, fucked up little way.

"It's been alright," I say. "We haven't sword fought in the living room yet, so it's going better than fourth year."

Penny starts giggling over the phone. 

"_ Not like that. _ Merlin, Penny." 

"Sorry. _ Sorry _. I've been around Micah for too long." 

I roll my eyes, even though she can't see me. 

"Have you talked about the kiss yet?" Penny prompts.

"It hasn't come up yet?" It comes out as a question, even though I don't mean for it to. 

The thing is, I don't _ want _ to talk about the kiss, but I think I should. I need to let him know that it was—well, it was entirely heterosexual. Obviously we're two blokes, so it was a little gay, but _ I'm _ heterosexual, so as a whole, the kiss wasn't gay.

But Baz is gay. So. I need to let him know that I'm not (and never was) into him romantically. 

I'm sure I would be if I _ was _ gay, though.

Baz is bloody perfect, other than being an evil plotting vampire. And really, he isn't _ evil _. Just a bit of a dickhead, sometimes. But some people are into that, right? 

He'd be the ideal guy. Or at least my ideal guy. 

Looks wise, Baz is basically flawless. I mean, he's incredibly fit; he always has been. I wouldn't be surprised if he could lift me up without any trouble, though I suspect that that has more to do with being a vampire than being built.

Not to mention that he's got that stupid regal look about him. Even though his nose has been broken (by me) and is pretty fucking big, it just makes him look even more like royalty. Especially since his jawline could probably cut through glass. 

Baz is the whole package, when you think about it: Smart, good looking, talented. He's even fluent in, like, three languages. He's graceful and ruthless and everything blokes probably go mad for. I definitely would, if I was into men.

Anyhow, I just think we should clear up that our little kiss incident is just that—anincident. Since I'm into women.

I tell Penny this, and she goes silent for a very long time. Then, she lets out a small sigh.

"What?" I ask. 

"Simon. Do you...are you sure you aren't gay?" 

I almost choke on the air. "Well, I mean. I've never thought about it, but I'm pretty sure I'm not. I've only ever dated women."

"Yes, but you've never went on about them like you just went on about Baz. Besides, you could be bisexual, or even something else."

I deny it, tell her that I'm pretty sure I'm straight, but even as I say it I feel like I'm lying. 

_ You don't fancy Baz, _ I tell myself. _ You've just been thinking about him a lot. That's all. _

I change the subject back to the wedding, and then we talk about how shit American chocolate is, and how much she misses chocolate from home (I promise to bring her a big bag of sweets when I fly over for the wedding). We part ways when I start to nod off, since it's much later here than it is there. 

"Say hi to Micah for me," I say. 

"I will. Goodnight, Si."

"Night, Pen."

For the next few days, our conversation about the kiss is all I can think about. It pops back into my mind whenever I get a silent moment alone, without any distractions. I'll start thinking about Baz's lips, and how cold they were that night. I start wondering if they would have warmed up, if I had kept my mouth pressed to his for a little while longer…

I've got to bring it up to him—I'm convinced that it's the only way I'll stop obsessing over it. The longer I put off this conversation, the more I'll end up suffering. 

But I don't exactly know how to go about it, so I just blurt it out to him the Sunday morning that he gets back.

"I'm straight."

We're in our usual positions—I'm sitting on the end of the sofa opposite to him, and he's reading a ridiculously large book. 

Well. Was reading. Now he's glancing at me like I've gone mental.

"I'm touched that you're telling me, Snow. I admire your bravery," Baz says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Fuck. Did I come off as rude? That wasn't my intention.

"I just— well I mean. You, you're—"

"Gay?" 

"Yeah. No! No, I wasn't…" 

Baz closes his book. "I am gay, Snow. If that makes you uncomfortable, I genuinely do not care. Find somewhere else to live if that's the case."

"No! Baz that isn't what I meant."

"Then what _ did _ you mean, Simon?"

I reach up and tug at a lock of my hair, about ready to pull it from my scalp.

"So, remember when I, uh, kissed you? I don't know why I did that. Because I'm straight, you know? So I just wanted you to, um, to know that that wasn't… flirting," I wildly gesture at nothing, hoping it'll get me through the sentence.

Baz looks thoroughly amused. "Did you really just 'no homo' the fact that we kissed? Do you hear yourself when you speak?" He shakes his head, like he can't believe me.

"Well I figured I should tell you! Since you have a boyfriend and everything."

Baz pulls his eyebrows together. It's nice to watch—his eyebrows are thick and well kept. I bet be has a whole routine he uses to take care of them. "What are you talking about, Snow?"

"You've got a picture of this bloke on Valentine's day on your Instagram. Andrew, right? He's got pictures of you on his page."

It dawns on me that I've just confessed to stalking not only his Instagram, but also his boyfriend's, and that sounds really fucking creepy. But I'm far too burrowed into his hole to come out now, so I continue with, "You look nice together."

(I don't mean it. I _ don't _think they look right together. I don't think they fit, for some reason, but I'm not going to say that.)

There's a fire in Baz's stormy eyes, and I can tell I've hit a nerve. "Andy isn't my boyfriend."

"But he's got—"

"It's complicated," he snaps.

I nod.

"And even if that kiss was a confession of your undying love, Snow, I would never reciprocate. I do have _ standards. _"

I nod, but I'm honestly a little hurt.

_ What the fuck is that supposed to mean? _Fine, maybe I'm not his type, but he doesn't have to be a tit about it. 

(How is Andrew his type and I'm not? At least I have a build to me. That bloke looked like I could snap him in half in all of his pictures.)

Well, it doesn't matter. At least the air is clear now. At least we can just laugh off the fact that I kissed my worst enemy and roomate.

It's fine. It's _ good _. Really, it is. 

Merlin, I'm going to need to call Penny later. 

  
  


**Baz**

Oh, that prick. That numpty brained prick.

Is he really that insecure in his sexuality? That he has to go around confirming that he's straight? Is he worried I'm going to somehow try and convert him to the gay side? I don't pretend to understand heterosexuals, but that was just a load of shit.

_ "I'm straight." _

I feel like banging my head against a wall. 

It's just another reminder that I'll never have him. That he'll never want me.

I consider shooting Andy a text, but I talk to Niall instead.

  
  


_ Basilton.pitch: you're the only heterosexual I like, I hope you know that _

_ That.Lad.Niall: what about dev? _

_ Basilton.pitch: I only tolerate Dev because hes family _

_ That.Lad.Niall: that's harsh but fair _

_ That.Lad.Niall: so who's got on your nerves this time?? _

_ Basilton.pitch: take a wild fucking guess, Niall _

_ That.Lad.Niall: oh Crowley baz do you STILL have a hard on for the Chosen one?? _

_ Basilton.pitch: feelings don't just go away overnight. _

_ That.Lad.Niall: ITS BEEN FOUR YEARS _

_ Basilton.pitch: that is irrelevant _

_ Basilton.pitch: guess what he just said he,,,,,,,,f u c k I n g _

_ Basilton.pitch: he was all 'oh I kissed you once but it was in a bro way' _

_ That.Lad.Niall: aw a bromance _

_ That.Lad.Niall: proper mates, the pair of yous _

_ Basilton.pitch: piss off niall this is serious _

_ That.Lad.Niall: what do you want me to say? I'm sorry that you're living with your straight crush? _

_ That.Lad.Niall: you have to let him go mate _

_ Basilton.pitch: I cant. He sleeps in the room next to mine _

_ That.Lad.Niall: then have a wank and get over it _

_ Basilton.pitch: you're such an empathetic friend. I'm truly blessed, Niall. _

_ That.Lad.Niall: I'm just telling you what you need to hear _

_ Basilton.pitch: I know. Thanks, really. _

_ That.Lad.Niall: itll get better. You'll find someone bruv _

  


At times like this, I'm glad to have Niall. He isn't telling me what I want to hear. He isn't even telling me anything that's going to help, but he's still trying. He's one of the few friends I have that I know has my back. 

Dev and Niall are the only people who know about my feelings for Snow—I confessed it shortly after Christmas the year Snow left me in that damned forest. I didn't mean to tell them, but the alcohol we had smuggled into their room at Watford that night had started to work its way through my system, and I tend to get a bit down when I'm pissed.

They were good sports about it,aside from accusing me of wasting their childhoods the following morning. Each of them gave me hearty pats on the back when I started to cry that night, and they let me sleep on their floor so I didn't have to brave going up the stairs to get to my room. 

They didn't care that I was gay. They never acted weird about it, or worried if I would hit on them. Dev and Niall accepted me from the get go, and assured me I was too good for Snow anyway. 

Good men.

Crowley knows I need people like them, even if I joke about not liking either of them. 

After I came out to my family properly, they cut me off. It didn't happen how I thought it would. Instead of my father telling me how disgusted he was with my sexuality, he simply stopped talking to me. So did Daphne, and my siblings, though I suspect that's because my father forbids it. The only family member I have that supports me, aside from Dev, is my aunt Fiona. 

Other than them, I'm alone. Even when I'm with them, I feel alone.

I want someone to send my time with. I want a boyfriend, I want a future with someone. 

It's the worst kind of torture, knowing that I'll never get what I want the most. I'll never get to kiss Snow again. I'll never catch a glimpse at the moles that are covered by his clothes. I'm never going to be his boyfriend, the person he decides he wants to snog after a long day at work. We'll never be soft with each other, like the way we are in my fantasies. 

I would be soft with him, sometimes. If we dated. If he wanted. I'd call him obnoxiously cheesy pet names like 'love' and 'baby' and anything else he'd want to be called, and he'd wake me up every day with a 'good morning, darling'.

Simon Snow is never going to call me darling

Never.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: this chapter has a very descriptive panic attack in it, and mentions of ptsd, so if that isn't your jam just scroll to the notes at the end and I'll give you a non descriptive overview of the chapter

**Baz**

  
  


Every friday night, Snow and I sit down and watch a movie, alternating who picks it out each week. It's been going on for a while now, a few or so before his great sexuality revelation, but quite I'm not sure how this tradition started. All I know is that one day we were discussing our favourite movies, and the next thing I know, Simon had me watching  _ Hot Fuzz. _

Despite his dreadful taste in movies, I find myself looking forward to it each week. I spend every Friday counting down the hours and minutes until I get to sit beside him for an hour or two, just basking in his presence. 

(I know that sounds creepy, but I'm past the point of caring. I've done much more disturbed things in my time when it comes to Simon Snow.)

I can't even complain about the atrocious films he forces me to watch, because half the time, I'm paying more attention to him than whatever's playing. I love watching the different colors illuminate his face in the darkness of our sitting room. I love watching him laugh at an awful joke until he's crying with joy. No film could ever hold a candle to the experience that is watching Simon Snow smile.

It's any other Friday evening when our movie night goes haywire. I don't even notice anything out of the ordinary is happening until Snow's sprinting out of the room and down the hall.

I'm up on my feet, following him in an instant. 

I don't make it in time to stop Snow from locking himself in our bathroom, though. I may not be able to see him, but I can hear thrashing coming from behind the door. I can even hear his heartbeat—it going a mile a minute.

I knock on the door heavily.

"Snow? What's wrong?" 

Nothing. Nothing, nothing, and then coughing. Or retching. Like he's throwing up. Is he sick? Maybe he ate something that had gone off. Trust Snow to poison himself with spoiled food; I should clean out the fridge more often. Crowley knows I'm the only one who does any sort of cleaning around here, anyway.

"Are you alright?" I knock on the door again.

"I— no." He says, and then, "Sorry, I'm— sorr— sorry, no, I didn't mean…" 

I can feel my heart start to twist when I realize he's crying.

"Open the door, Snow," I demand. I'm worried. I don't know what to do, but I can't just bloody stand here. His breathing is too ragged, and if he doesn't stop, he's going to pass out. 

I'm going to have to spell the door open.

" ** _Open Sesame!"_ **

  
  
  


**Simon**

I don't want this. I don't want anyone near me.

I can't stop crying and I'm  _ so sorry I'm so sorry _ and Ebb's blood is coating my hands, red and warm and thick. I can see The Mage, his lifeless corpse slumped on the ground of the White Chapel. When did he get here? I don't know. I don't know what's happening.

I don't know where I am. The flat? The tower? When did the two start looking so similar?

_ None of this is real and I'm sorry and it won't stop and it's gone it's gone it's not here I gave it away, just please please please stop hurting me. _

Baz is kneeled in front of me. I don't know when he got here, but he's touching my knee and I can't handle it, but I can't find the words to tell him to stop. So I just swing my arm out to knock it away instead.

Someone is yelling at Baz. 

It might be me. I'm not sure.

My head feels light and my hands feel tingly. There's something wet sliding down my face...

I feel like I need to move somewhere, somewhere that Baz won't see me. Somewhere that I'm safe. So I move backwards until I'm seated in a bathtub, because that's the only place I can think to move—Baz is blocking the door.

I can't breathe and I think I'm going to die. Right here, right now. My vision is blurry. I think I'm shaking. Or is that just the ground beneath me giving out? I can't be sure about that either. I can't be sure about anything.

" ** _Peace be with ye!_ ** " 

Baz is the one who says it. I feel warmth everywhere suddenly, like he's lit a fire in my chest, and it feels good. Air rushes in my lungs and my vision clears. Then it blurs, and I'm sent back into a shaky panic.

My entire head feels like it's underwater and I can't pull it out. All the noises around me sound muffled and far away. I don't like it, so I jam my eyes shut and press my hands over my ears, to block out the drowning feeling.

I'm fucking going to die. 

  
  


**Baz**

Snow is a wreck. 

He's clutching his head and crying harder than I thought anyone ever could, babbling on about nonsense. It isn't a pretty sort of cry that you see in the movies—it sounds pained and he keeps coughing and there's tears and snot running down his blotchy red face. Everything about him is sweaty and shaky. 

** _Peace be with ye_ ** worked for a second, but he's back hyperventilating almost immediately after. I keep casting, but it isn't doing shit. 

I don't know what to do. 

I don't know  _ what's wrong. _ Nothing was going on, other than the movie. How could he have gone from absolutely fine to having a panic attack in seconds? I've only ever had a panic attack once or twice before, but they were never this bad. I tried to touch his leg earlier, to offer some comfort, but that only made it worse. He freaked out and slapped my hand away. If he wasn't in such a state, I'd probably have hit him back. 

Maybe I should hit him anyway. Maybe then he'll shut up.

It's pissing me off to see him so upset, without any reason as to why. What on earth could be wrong? Is he having some sort of mental breakdown? Is this a medical issue that I wasn't aware of? All of this would have been useful information to have  _ before _ this situation arose.

Thankfully, this isn't the first time I've seen Simon ready to explode—this is just the first time he's looked like this when it's happened.

I think of all the times his magic would start to spark out of him before he went off, how alive the air would be with all of his overflowing power. How I used to refrain from going over to him and telling him to breathe, because that isn't something enemies do.

I don't refrain now. There's no reason for me to, and even if there was, I need this to stop. I need to take this imbeciles pain away. 

  
  


**Simon **

I'm having a panic attack. 

Okay. Okay, okay, okay. 

I haven't had one in a long time. God, such a failure. I thought I was getting better. That doesn't matter right now, though. I've got to focus on calming down, so Baz can calm down. He's shouting phrases—no, spells—at me left and right.

**"** ** _Your attention please!_ ** **"**

My mind clears for a second. My head snaps up and all I can focus on is Baz.

"Breathe, Simon!" He's yelling at me, like he's angry, and it makes me want to cry even harder. It isn't my bloody fault I'm crying, he shouldn't be upset with me.

_ Breathe. _ I do. 

"In and out. Merlin, Snow. Get yourself together. It's going to be fine."

_ It fucking bloody well fucking won't. _

I do it anyway. Breathe. He's making me— **Your Attention Please ** is a compulsion spell. Or maybe he has me in a thrall—can't vampires do that?—and that's why I'm following his instructions.

It doesn't matter.

I'm still crying, but I can think now. More than before, anyway. And Baz is in front of me. And I'm in the bathroom. And Baz is kneeling in front of me, telling me it's all going to be okay, that I'm safe, that he's here for me. He's saying it like he's a second away from punching me in the jaw, but he's saying it nonetheless. 

Those words don't mean shit to me. I've heard them loads of times before. From Penny. From anyone willing to help me. They think it'll just magically make me better, but it wont. But that's okay. He's trying. That's what matters—that whoever's telling me I'm going to be okay, they just want to help. They just want me to be better.

I'm calming myself down now, for the most part. Remembering what my therapist taught me. How to focus, how to ground myself when I feel like I'm flying away. I wouldn't be able to do it if Baz hadn't cast that spell, though, so I guess I can't take all the credit.

My hands are tingling, but I reach out and grab Baz, any part of him, because I remember that it's important that I know that I'm not back there in the Chapel. That I'm really here, in London, in Baz and I's flat, and Baz is here with me. I expect him to yank his hand back when I grab it, and I think he almost does, but instead he keeps still.

(Damn my aversion to skin to skin contact, I need this right now.)

His hands aren't soft like I had anticipated. Instead they're scratchy and rough. And so, so cold.

  
  
  


**Baz**

It takes a while before he's not crying or hyperventilating anymore.

I stay with him, silent until he does, because I don't have anything else to offer him. I feel useless, and it's frustrating for me, but there isn't much else I can do.

Snow isn't staring at me now, or squeezing his eyes shut like he can't handle using all of his senses at once. He's just staring at the floor and breathing, occasionally wiping the tears from his cheeks.

Aliseter Crowley, he's disgusting. He needs a shower. Maybe once this is over with, I'll coax him into that. He's alrighty sitting in the bathtub—what if I just turned the water on? (He'd probably send himself straight into another panic, so I don't.)

Snow gets a little worse, and then better, and he keeps switching between the two for at least twenty minutes. 

And I stay.

I'll squeeze his hand, ever so softly, and he'll do it back. It's the worst hand holding experience I've ever had. It's incredibly sweaty, but I don't care. Whatever he needs, I'll do it. I'd end the world for this boy right now if he asked me to.

We must sit there for an entire hour before he meets my gaze again. 

"I'm so sorry." 

  
  


**Simon **

When it's passed for the most part, I'm dead embarrassed. 

I probably look a mess right now, and it's all thanks to the fucking Princess Bride.

I'd never seen it before. I didn't think I'd be very affected. I mean, kids watch this film, right? Why wouldn't I be able to handle it? I'm a grown ass man.

I typically get a little panicked when I watch something too graphic. I mean, it's not like this movie was particularly graphic, but I guess my brain doesn't care about that. This curly haired dude got stabbed, and the second there was blood, all I could see was Ebb. I needed to get out of there.

_ Baz thinks I'm mental now. _ I'm sure of it.

"I'm so sorry," I repeat. My voice is small and gravelly, like I'm getting over a cold.

"Don't be," he says sternly. He's still holding my hand. "Are you alright?"

I'm horrified because he seems genuinely concerned. In a pissed off way. I guess it makes sense, now that we're friends, but it's still so weird to see the concern on his face. 

Right now, I don't have the mental energy to form a sentence that properly explains that I have PTSD, and that's why cant make it through a children's movie, so I just shake my head a little. "I'll be okay." 

That's half a lie. My head is pounding, my eyes hurt, and I know that my arms and legs are going to be sore later, because they always are after I have an attack like this. 

Baz doesn't look very convinced, but he squeezes my hand and nods. 

I don't want him to let go of my hand. Ever. 

I feel so shitty, because here he is, staying, even though he doesn't know what to make of the situation, even though I'm shattered right now.

And I left him that night, in the forest.

_ I left him _ . But he's still staying here with me.

"Simon?" He asks.

"Hm?" It's all I can offer. 

"Do you need anything?" 

I nod. My face is sticky with tears and sweat. In fact, I'm sweating all over. It's horrid. I feel like a helpless little toddler after a tantrum, and I hate it, but I  _ do  _ need help. I need Baz.

He stands and pulls me up with him, holding my shoulders so I don't fall over, and leads me to my room. He tosses me a box of tissues that he conjured up from nowhere and some of my clothes so I can change, and begrudgingly says he'll be right back. By the time he returns, I've managed to get myself into pajamas and crawl under the covers of my bed. Still feeling gross, but better than before by millions.

Baz has a glass of water and a plate of toast. He sets it on the side of my bed, and I'm eating in an instant—all that crying has my stomach in knots.

The whole time I eat, Baz just sits there, on the edge of the bed, waiting for me to send him out. 

Except I don't want him to leave just yet. 

He's surprised when I tell him that. 

"What do you want me to do?" He asks quietly. Still sounding a little annoyed, but I don't think he is. I think he's acting, so he doesn't look like a giant softie.

"Just—fuck, 'm sorry. Can you just…?" I motion at the bed, because even though he just witnessed me have a breakdown, I'm embarrassed to ask another full grown man to stay in bed with me. To calm me down.

_ It's just Baz. _

When I think he'll look disgusted and tell me I'm out of my mind, he just frowns and says he will be back in a minute. Just give him a minute. 

I feel a wave of sickness hit me the second he walks out of the room. I really don't want to keep my eyes open anymore. My head feels like I've just poured lighter fluid and lit a match inside it, and my eyes strain against the harsh bedroom light. It's late, according to the alarm clock on the window sill, and I feel guilt start to weigh down on my shoulders from everything I'm putting Baz through.

I'm  _ so _ tired.

Nothing feels really real, and every muscle in my body feels wrong. Like it did when I used to go off. 

I hardly notice Baz when he comes back in, clad in pajamas, until he's clicked off the light, surrounding us in the pitch black of my room. 

I lay back down as Baz shuffles awkwardly under the covers next to me. He doesn't make a move to touch me, but I practically throw myself on top of him, desperate for comfort. It's the cherry on top of the humiliation cake, but I can deal with the consequences in the morning. Right now, I just want Baz.

Elegant fingers find their way into my hair, winding through my curls gently. It's well gay that another bloke is cuddling me, running his hands through my hair, and it's even gayer that I enjoy it, but I dont give a single shit. This is what I need right now, even if it's awkward. Even if it's Baz. His whole body is cold, and it feels absolutely glorious on my burning skin. I rest my head on his shoulder and wrap an arm around his side, shifting into a more comfortable position than when I first rolled on top of him.

This is better than anything I've ever done, and part of me wonders why everything feels so right. Part of me wonders why I care.

I think I'll drift off just like this, nestled in Baz's arms like it's the safest place in the world.

They are, and I do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Overview: Baz and Simon have a tradition of watching a movie every friday night. This particular night, Simon has a panic attack triggered by a graphic scene in the movie. Baz helps calm him down, and they end up sleeping in the same bed because Simon needs the comfort.


	6. Chapter 6

**Baz**

Staying with Simon was a mistake. I knew that as soon as I woke up with the bloody Chosen One's head resting on my chest, his hand clutching the hem of my shirt, our legs tangled together. 

It was the first time in a long time that I've woken up feeling _ warm. _ Snow was like my own personal space heater, if space heaters drooled all over your t-shirt and snored while they slept. I didn't mind so much, though. It all felt so painfully _ right. _ I've never been more content in my life than in that moment, knowing that he was there with me, in my arms. Knowing that he _ wanted me there _. But of course, I realized that he didn't want me there in the same sense that I did. He just wanted me to stay because he wasn't in a good place and he needed reassurance. 

That's why I didn't let myself enjoy the feeling of his head resting on my chest. I just got up and had a wank in the shower, like any other rational person would.

I did end up asking him if he was okay later on that morning, however, since I am so _ disgustingly _weak.

He told me he was. Apparently that sort of thing just happens sometimes, when he sees blood or anything too violent. He explained that it's a result of witnessing the death of The Mage, and seeing the corpse of his goatherd friend in the White Chapel. He fails to slip in that it might also be because of the seemingly endless line of monsters he's fought, or the amount of times we've beaten each other bloody, but I feel as though that's implied. 

(I try not to feel guilty about the brawls we've had, but I do anyway.)

(He deserved most of them, though. I can't pity him forever.)

Snow looked mortified telling me all this. Like I would make fun of him or lash out.

I don't. Obviously. I don't know what kind of monster would make fun of a trauma victim who saved the world of magic. Or any trauma victim, for that matter. 

I haven't brought it up yet, his magic. Being around him no longer feels like standing next to a nuclear bomb ready to blow at any second. I don't feel tipsy on his power whenever he feels any emotion other than calm. 

I love him just the same. Even without his power, he's a hero. An actual fucking hero, because he did what everyone always said he would—he defeated the Humdrum and saved the World of Mages. He sacrificed his magic for the greater good. Crowley knows that nobody else would have made that decision. I know I wouldn't have.

And he did kill The Mage. Everyone knows that. He unknowingly avenged my mother's death. 

So, everything went back to normal over the next couple of days. We continue on with everything like we did before, but now, it's like there's a solid friendship that's formed. If we had never been enemies, I suppose it's what living at Watford would have been like. 

_ Why did we have to be enemies? _

I know why, obviously. He's The Mage's Heir. The Chosen One. And I'm the big bad vampire from the Old Families that's come to destroy his precious world of magick. Or, I was, at least. Now I'm just his roomate. But it wasn't fair—it _ isn't _fair—that we got caught up in the war the way we did. That we had to be enemies. Because despite all our differences, Snow and I get along rather well. We could have easily been friends growing up. 

Maybe that would have been worse than being enemies, though.

Being enemies with the person you love most is like being repeatedly staked through the heart. But being friends with the person you love most is like _ enjoying _being staked through the heart. It doesn't stop hurting, but you never stop telling them good morning or good night. You never stop the friendly banter or the movie nights. You just remind yourself that the other person is straight, and you're hopeless.

I should have known things would go wrong the moment everything started to pick up for Snow and I.

"We on for tonight?" Snow asks the second I get home from uni. Its Friday—_ our _Friday. 

I take off my shoes and hang up my coat. 

(Unlike him, I have manners.)

"Actually, I'm going out tonight. One of my friends from uni is throwing a party," I say, nonchalantly. Like I'm not about to do something I'll regret. 

He frowns. "Oh. Alright. Have fun, then."

"She said I could bring someone, if you're interested."

I am _ not _ asking him on a date. That's not what this is. I would just be bringing him as a friend. Friends go to parties together. It's normal, completely platonic. I have no motivations behind asking him other than the desire to have a good time with a friend. 

"Yeah, alright. You sure?"

I grin, just slightly. "Positive."

  


**Simon**

This party isn't where I want to be tonight.

I _ want _ to be at home with Baz, on our sofa, eating more than my share of crisps, watching _ Anchorman. _I want to be in comfortable clothes, not the outfit Baz deemed "somewhat suitable" for this event. 

I'm only here because Penny is always on my arse about having more of a social life now that I actually have the free time to form one. And because I didn't want then spend the night alone, knowing that Baz is out having the time of his life without me.

I'm regretting my decision now, though. Everyone here seems to be under the intention of getting plastered, including Baz, even though the alcohol is cheap and tastes like piss. 

(Actually, all alcohol tastes like piss. I'm just drinking because it's something for me to do other than follow Baz around like a twat.)

Besides, these are all Baz's mates, not mine. Niall is here, though, so at least that's one face I recognize... 

I feel so stupidly out of place, but Baz seems to be having a good time.

I can tell because his arm is slung around my shoulder and he's leaning into me slightly, talking to Niall about football rivalries. 

"...Arsenal can _ get fucked. _" He slurs, pointing a finger at Niall. 

Niall shakes his head, and says something that I can't quite make out. 

(It's too loud in here. And dark. I can barely hear myself think. I'm fairly sure all the music playing is from the eighties—Tainted Love came on earlier, and everyone started to lose their shit. That's been the highlight of this entire night.)

A part of me wonders whether I should mind the fact that Baz has his arm around me, but I don't. I almost want him to keep it there. I mean, he's had a lot to drink—the last thing I need is him losing his balance—but it's also a sauna in here, with all the bodies moving to the best of the music. The cool skin of his forearm against my neck feels fucking heavenly. 

Besides, I slept in his arms the other night. This is hardly the gayest thing I've done with him. Wanting him to keep touching me doesn't mean I've got feelings for him. 

(Right?) 

(Right. Of course not.)

"Simon?" Niall asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"What?"

"Who'd'ya reckon 's better? Arsenal or Manchester United?"

I blink. I don't support either. 

"Er, Man United, I guess?" 

Baz squeezes my shoulder and pulls me towards him slightly. "See? Fucking told you. Arsenal isn't shit compared to them." 

I feel butterflies fill my stomach and fly up my throat when he pulls me close. It's been like this every time we touch, ever since that night in my bed. Fuck, it sounds odd, but waking up that morning was lovely. He doesn't know it, but I woke up before him—my head was resting on his chest. I tried to listen for his heartbeat, but I got bored before I found it. So instead, I decided I was going to lay like that until he woke up, because everything felt so perfectly in place. Because, deep down I knew, Baz bloody Pitch would never let me cuddle with him if he were awake.

I felt like a bit of a creep when he woke up, though, seeing as how he got up almost immediately. (I had to refrain from opening my eyes, so he wouldn't know I was faking.)

I push aside the thought. I don't need to dwell on my feelings for Baz, because I don't have any. 

_ He's just your friend, _ I think. _ He's just your friend, and you're not even gay. _

  


**Baz**

Maybe bringing Simon here wasn't the best idea. 

He isn't talking, really, which tends to he the points if these kinds of events. I should have known he wouldn't like it here—I'm surprised he even agreed to come. He's been drinking, but not as much as everyone else. Crowley knows he isn't as far gone as I am.

I'm swaying on my feet, a bit. I think. I have to keep a hold of Simon, lest I fall down. I might fall down anyways, though, because he looks fucking _ gorgeous _ tonight. I dressed him myself before we left—he's in a button down shirt and light jeans that are ripped at the knee. His hair is, admittedly, a fright. I don't think I mind. I could stay like this forever. Standing here with Snow, music playing so loudly I feel it's hum in my chest, feeling as if I'm alive. 

_ He doesn't care about you, _ the little voice in my head shrieks. _ He doesn't love you. Why would he? You're nothing but a monster. Deep down, Snow will always see you as an enemy— _

A voice a little ways away snaps me out of my Simon induced daze. 

"Baz!"

Andy, of all people, is walking up to us, grinning at me like I'm just what he was looking for.

I pull my hand away from Snow, trying to grab Andy by the arm. I end up stumbling a bit, and he catches me, pulling my chest towards his.

"I didn't know you'd be here tonight," he says, flashing a smile. It's low, I can only hear it over the music because of my vampire hearing.

I grin. "I hoped you would be."

Snow makes some sort of grunt sound behind me, like the numpty he is.

"You wanna go somewhere...private?" Andy asks.

Snow grunts. Again. Harder this time, so he starts coughing. 

"I—I'll be right back, okay Snow?" I ask, turning to him. "Keep him company, Niall."

Snow doesn't want me. Maybe he's my mate, but that's all we're ever going to be, because he's straight. And that's _ fine _ . But I need to get over him. I need someone. I know Andy will fuck me if I put on a pretty face and act like I miss him, act like I need him, act like I'm the perfect guy everyone thinks I am. And that's what I need right now—a quick shag to take my mind off Simon _ fucking _ Snow. 

I'll get back with Andy tonight. We'll start dating again, and maybe he'll be enough to make me happy. We could get married later down the road and have kids. I'll turn him into my vampire lover forever, and we'll both outlive Simon, and I'll never have to think about him again. 

_ I'm in shambles, _ I think as we find a room to lock ourselves in.

_ Maybe I can just pretend this is Snow, _ I think as Andy pins me against a wall, smashing his lips to mine. _ Maybe one day, I won't need to pretend. _

  


**Simon. **

I'm practically burning with envy.

I wasn't going to let him leave—he's my fucking ride home—but that Andrew git whisked him away so fast I could barely protest.

I don't even know what just happened. Is it really so simple to get Baz Pitch's attention, that all you have to do is pull him into a hug and suggest a snog? If so, I wish I'd had that information a long time ago. I've been trying to get his attention for _ years _, and the only way I've ever gone about it is picking fights. 

(Though I do suppose Andrew and I want his attention for different reasons.)

Niall just continues to drunkenly ramble about football, like Baz didn't just ditch us to go have a shag with his so called ex. 

"If you don't support Arsenal or Man United, who d'ya support?" Niall asks. 

"Tottenham."

He practically walks away on the spot. 

I don't mind much that he's left. All Niall has been talking about in the past twenty minutes that Baz has been gone is football. All I've been able to think about is Baz. How he's off somewhere with someone who isn't me. Will he sleep with Andrew in his arms tonight? Will it be like it was with me? 

No. There was no "with me." That was platonic. That was finding comfort in a friend. Or was it?

Whatever it was, I need to find Baz. I've been nursing this cup for too long, and while I don't consider myself a lightweight, I've definitely surpassed my limit. The ground practically moves beneath me as I search for him. It's a horror show trying to squeeze my way through the sea of people, jumping and dancing. Having a good time. Fuck, I wish that were me. I wish I could enjoy this, but I can't. Not alone. Not with this shitty music that's blasting (the police are probably going to show up at some point. I can't imagine that none of the neighbors haven't complained about the noise.) 

I don't like the song playing. I've never heard it before, but the blokes voice is too high for my liking, and everything about it shouts techno. Most of all, I hate the words. Not that I can make many of them out—but I can tell it's a love song. Which reminds me of Baz, and that I need to find him. I'm drunk. I need to go home, I need Baz… 

I find him in somebody's room, pinned to the wall by Andrew. The buttons of his shirt are undone and they're touching and there are _ sounds _being made and—

I would be going off right now, if I still had my magic.

_ You shouldn't be seeing this, _ I tell myself. And yet, I'm practically frozen to the spot.

"Simon?" Baz sounds breathless as both him and Andrew notice me standing in the doorway. "What are you—?"

His voice is what gives me the courage to get the fuck out of the room. I don't even stop to see if Baz is going after me, or if he looks angry. I just book it down the hall, drunkenness be damned, trying to figure out where the fucking door out of here is. 

In the end, I take a cab back to the flat. It seems like the best idea, seeing as I have nobody to call, and no idea where I'm at. Baz was in charge of getting us home—I had assumed one of us would be staying sober tonight—but that obviously isn't happening now.

As soon as I climb in the back seat, everything I've just been through hits me at full force. Jealousy courses through my entire body, and I almost shake at the sensation. I can't even place why. I've not the foggiest _ why _ this is fucking with me the way it is, but from the minute I saw those two, I've felt like punching something. Shit, I would punch _ anything _right now, but I'm not sure the driver would appreciate that. The last thing I need tonight is being hauled off by the police because I got a little too angry in the back of a taxi.

I can't get the sight of those two out of my head. I can't shake this feeling of envy. Am I homophobic? No. No, that isn't me. I'm not that kind of dickhead. So why does it bother me that Baz is...well, getting off with someone? It isn't any of my business. 

I recognize the song playing on the radio, remarkably. It's the same one that was playing when I went to find Baz earlier. 

_ "Every time I see you, something happens to me, _

_ Like a chain reaction, between you and me, _

_ My heart starts missing a beat, my heart starts missing a beat, every time." _

Its funny. Fucking hilarious, because that's how I feel about Baz. When I see him lately, something just..._ happens. _ I can't explain it. My heart practically does the fucking Charleston when he enters my line of vision. But that isn't exactly new, is it? The same thing used to happen at Watford, sometimes. Like when I'd watch him play football. Seeing him rule the pitch, all ruthless and graceful with his hair in his face, his uniform clinging to his body. Or when I would watch him in elocution, perfectly enunciating every word to a spell, almost like he was singing it. I was always affected by him, but I figured it was just hatred. Was it?

The radio blares on. 

_ "...I hear your heartbeat next me, I'm in love with you, I mean what I say, I'm in love with you…" _

Holy fuck. Wait a minute. 

_ Holy fuck. _

It hits me as I continue listening. The thought that's been gnawing at me from the back of my head, the thought that I've tried to block out desperately. The thing I've been so oblivious about before, but now, seems stupidly clear.

I fancy Baz Pitch.

Eight snakes and a phoenix, it all makes bloody sense now, doesn't it? I mean, how else could I explain everything I've felt tonight? The feelings that have been brewing deep inside me, ever since that night he held me in his arms?

But Baz must not feel the same. Fuck, of _ course _he doesn't. We were enemies for years, and even if we aren't now, I still get on his nerves. I leave things lying about the flat and I chew with my mouth open sometimes, out of habit, and I'm a fucking Normal. Not a Mage, not a vampire. Not even posh. Nothing. There isn't much about me to love. Not for someone like him, at least. 

"You alright, mate?" The cabbie asks. He's old, with a gruff northern accent.

(I fought a goblin disguised as a cabbie once. Dead handsome, he was, but that all feels like a lifetime ago now. I'm not sure it wasn't.)

"Yeah," I sniff, even though I'm clearly not. I didn't realize I'd gotten teary eyed, but the song and my feelings for Baz and all that _ fucking _alcohol must've just gotten to me. 

Having gay realizations about your roomate in the back of a taxi, it turns out, is exhausting. Especially when you're tipsy. 

So, when I get back to the flat, I strip down to my pants and crawl straight into bed. I let myself have a nice pathetic little cry, because tonight's been well pathetic anyway, and I can't bring myself to hold it together any longer. I just clutch one of my pillows and let it out. I cry about Penny leaving. I cry about Baz, who's probably cuddled up with someone else tonight. I cry about Ebb, because if she were here, she'd know exactly what to say. She'd probably hand me a biscuit and weep with me, or tell me that having feelings for a boy isn't a big deal. 

I suppose it isn't. Even though I've spent my entire life operating under the assumption that, yeah, I'm into women exclusively. No, I'm not so torn up about having a crush on a boy. 

I'm just—well I'm—

Well, why did it have to be Baz Pitch? 

I fall asleep, at some point. I dream about fighting the dragon. I dream about pushing my magic into Baz—and suddenly we aren't fighting the dragon anymore. We're in space. The veins in our arms are shining through our skin with my magic, a golden hue surrounding us. Im clutching his face, I'm leaning in…

Waking up feels like a slap in the face. I don't even get up straight away. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. My head hurts. My heart aches. My eyes are dry from all the crying I did last night. But my mind is stuck on one thought in particular, repeating it like a broken record player.

_ I fancy Baz Pitch. _

_ I fancy Baz Pitch. _

_ I fancy Baz Pitch. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I have no excuse other than laziness. Also if you're curious, the song Simon's talking about is Heart by Pet Shop Boys, which is simultaneously the best and worst song I've ever heard.
> 
> Ps I know next to nothing about football if you couldnt tell lol


	7. Chapter 7

**Baz **

Snow isn't speaking to me.

Of course he isn't. It was rude of me to leave him there at the party—I had half a mind to go after him when he walked in on Andy and I. But I didn't. I didn't follow him into the damp streets of London to apologize, I didn't tell him that I was only hooking up with Andy to get my mind off of  _ him _ .

It's been this way for almost a week, the silence. I understand why Snow is upset. I would be too. But this is just ridiculous. It's been like a repeat of Watford. There's so much hostility in the air between us, it feels like we're waiting for an atom bomb to explode. Our shoulders touched in the kitchen the other day, and he practically leapt away. 

I'm afraid this is how things will be permanently. As if the universe told told Snow and I that we had a good run, but it's time to go back to being at each other's throats every bleeding second. 

It's all my fault. I know that, of course, but blaming myself will do me no good. It won't mend whatever Snow and I had. 

Perhaps I'm just unlovable. That's what I wondered when I woke up the morning after the party, when Andy told me everything we had done had been a mistake. That he no longer felt the spark between us. That our current relationship with each other isn't healthy, and we should stop seeing each other, full stop. 

(I agreed. Obviously. He's right about everything. But it still kills me to know that the one boy I've loved for years doesn't want me, and my next best chance at happiness doesn't love me either.)

I suppose I won't have to endure Snow's torture for much longer. Snow is leaving for Bunce's wedding in America tonight. I'm supposed to drive him to the airport as soon as I get home. And true to his word, he's standing in our sitting room when I walk in, wearing his trackies and hoodie. They're ratty old clothes, but he still looks stunning as ever in them. I'd quite like to rip them off.

"Ready?" 

He doesn't do anything except nod. Even that small gesture is more than I've gotten in the past few days.

The ride to the airport is silent. Not the comfortable silence I've gotten used to having with him—this is the kind that makes you feel like you're suffocating of awkwardness 

"Will you walk me in?" Snow asks as we near the car park. 

"Why should I?"

"Because I fucking asked?" He turns in his seat to face me, his face a shade redder than it usually is. It reminds me of when he would go off. Maybe, if I tried hard enough, I could get him to do it again—that way, we'd both be cast out of our misery. 

"You aren't a child, Snow," I sneer. "Surely you can manage getting to the gate without causing mass havoc. Or can you? 

"Oh come off it Baz, just—" He cuts himself off, growling in frustration. "I've never flown on a plane before and 'm not sure where I have to go."

I huff, exasperated, but ultimately I get out of the car and walk him in. 

I hate airports, for all the obvious reasons. There's too many people—crying people, happy people, tired people. People fed up, who yell at the workers who are just doing their jobs. I hate the endless glass windows, I hate the loudness, I hate the smell. 

I hate that Snow is leaving me, damn it.

I shouldn't be upset that he's leaving for Bunce's wedding. The free time will be good for me, anyway. I can perfect some songs on my violin. Or call Niall and cry to him. The latter sounds more realistic.

When we get so far that it's time to part ways, Snow looks me in the eye. 

"I'll miss you."

For some reason, it makes me angry. He can't go on all week like he wants me dead, like its fifth year all over again, and then  _ tell me he'll miss me. _ That isn't how this works.

"And why would that be?"

"Because we're  _ friends. _ " Snow manages.

"Oh, are we? Is that what you think this is, Snow? I wasn't under the impression that we were friends anymore, Simon. You wouldn't go around treating Bunce like  _ shit  _ for a  _ week _ just because she snogged someone, would you?" I snap. I don't wait for him to respond. I just turn in an attempt to walk away, wanting to escape this bloody building as soon as I can.

Snow grabs my shoulder before I make it even three paces away, trying to hold me in place. 

I could easily keep going; I'm much stronger than him. But his grip is sending electric jolts through me, forcing me to turn and face him.

"What the fuck do you want?" I snarl. 

He shakes his head like an animal, as if the venom in my voice doesn't have any effect. "Are you with him?"

I sneer. "With who?" 

"Andrew." 

"That isn't your business."

Snow looks like he's about to burst. Or scream at me.

"Well I– yes it is! We had... _ something. _ Baz, don't tell me you didn't feel it too," He says it like it's a threat. 

This is absurd. "So what if I did feel something? That doesn't matter. You've made it spectacularly clear that you're straight."

"That hardly matters!" He shouts. Then he realizes we're in public, and lowers his voice a bit. "I care about you! We're friends!" 

"Is that why you've been ignoring me all week?" 

  
  
  


**Simon **

I don't mean to be ignoring him. I just needed to gather myself. 

I just want everything to be  _ normal _ again. I'm sick of being angry. Being jealous. Maybe I just need to win him over.

But no. I can't do that. I don't even know if I'm gay. All I know is I want to be with Baz. Romantically. Which sounds pretty gay, but I don't want to worry about that right now. Right now, I need to focus on trying to get him to stop being angry with me.

"Could you just not handle the fact that maybe I was happy?"

"Jesus  _ fucking  _ Christ, Baz! No! I just couldn't handle you being with someone else!" 

It's like I've lit a bomb. I didn't mean to say it. 

There's two blokes in suits in the corner, probably business men, watching us like we're a soap opera. It probably sounds like it to them—we  _ are  _ fighting in an airport, of all places, about Baz's sex life, of all things.

Baz shoots them an annoyed look, and they just act like they aren't listening. Then, Baz goes back to looking at me like I'm an insect.

I feel like one. 

"What do you mean?" He says it slowly enough that it doesn't even sound like a question once he's finished. I can't tell if he's mad. I can never tell what anyone is feeling—I've been bad at picking up on social cues since I was a kid. It's gotten better since I've gotten older, but when it comes to Baz, I'm absolutely clueless. Half the time he's so unreadable, it's like he's a statue.

It makes me feel like throwing a tantrum, like in a toddler, right here in front of everyone. I hate that I can't give him a straight answer. I hate that these posh gits are eavesdropping on our conversation. I hate that I can't get the words out of my head in the right order. I hate that Baz doesn't understand that I care about him. 

Why the fuck shouldn't I care about this arsehole? How could I not?

Damn it to hell and back. I've always cared about him. I've never wanted him dead, not truly. I just thought I did. I reckon I just thought I was in love with Agatha, when really I was jealous of her, not Baz. I wanted his attention.  _ Always.  _ Always wanting to know where he is, if he's safe, if he's plotting...

In shake my head. "It's nothing. Just. I just…" 

"What do you mean?" He demands again.

"Nothing, alright? Jus—I've got to go now. My plane is about to leave." 

"No." 

I growl. "Why not?"

"What. Did. You.  _ Fucking. _ Mean?" He asks. It sounds like a spell by the way he said it, but even he isn't powerful enough to make a spell out of nothing. 

"I mean I like you! There! That's it, that's why I don't want you with him! Fuck you, I  _ do _ care about you! You know why I kissed you? At Christmas? Because I don't want your stupid arse dead. I want you safe, I want you to be happy. And you—you probably  _ hate  _ me now and that's fi—that's fine. I'll move out if you want, I'll never step foot in England again, but there. At least you know now." 

  
  


**Baz **

Merlin's cock. 

  
  


**Simon **

He's silent. Not just silent—he looks like I've just slapped him in the face. The only sound is a womans robotic voice over the intercom, announcing that my plane is  _ about to leave. _

(I really need to get going. Penny will never forgive me if I miss her wedding.)

I feel tears start to well up in my eyes, and I have to turn and board that plane right now, but I can't. My body isn't responding to anything, it's too busy trying to catch up with everything I've just said.

Oh Merlin, I shouldn't have said anything.  _ Merlin. _

Baz has both eyebrows raised, looking like a deer in headlights. "You like me? As in…?" 

"As in I fancy you," I breathe. I'm annoyed. Not at him, at myself. 

(The two blokes in the corner aren't even being subtle anymore. They're leaning forward and hanging on to every word Baz and I say, and fuck, I want to walk over there and tell them off for listening to a private conversation between two strangers.)

Then the worse thing that could possibly happen at that moment does.

Baz starts laughing at me. It isn't even a giggle, or an easy laugh—its loud, manic laughter. Taunting, like when we were at school.

_ Shit shit shit fuck of course this happens to me, Merlin and Morgana, I fucked up royally this time— _

"I'm sorry. Please, just stop. Please," I say. There's tears streaming down my face, and I wipe at them furiously. 

I can't handle it. This. Any of it. I can feel my heart start to shatter as I tighten my grip on my suitcase and start to walk away from him, towards the gate.

"Wait, no,  _ Si— _ "

I don't give him the chance to speak. I just turn around and start walking away.

He's disgusted with me, no doubt. Probably hates me. Whatever relationship we had between us has been thrown out the window completely. There's no going back to save it now. Who am I kidding? The chance of our friendship being revived died the minute I left that party on Friday night. It died every day that I didn't speak to him. Why can't I do anything without fucking it up? Why can't I just learn to bloody communicate? Why can't I just act like a normal human being for one second of my life? 

_ Baz hates you Baz hates you Baz hates you— _

He's lightning fast as he grabs me by my shoulders and turns me around, pulling my into a kiss. 

_ Oh.  _ Alright, then.

  
  


**Baz **

Simon Snow is an idiot, but he's bloody magnificent at kissing. 

When he actually starts kissing me back, that is. At first he doesn't do anything, just lets me connect my lips to his, and I think I've made a mistake. But when he melts into it, it's the best kiss I've ever had. 

Merlin. This can't be happening. 

_ Simon Snow is kissing me. _

I bring myself closer to him and wind my fingers into his bronze curls. 

Crowley fuck me sideways, I'm going to be  _ so pissed  _ if this is a dream. 

  
  


**Simon **

Baz's lips are pleasantly cold. I think that's what I like most about this. Or maybe I like how his hands are playing with my hair best. Or the way he still tastes like that spearmint gum he was chewing in the car. 

(If I could actually string together a coherent thought, maybe I would make a list about it. I probably will later.)

I'm getting far too into this kiss when he pulls back, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. 

"Your plane," he blurts in a very un-Baz-like manner, obviously panicked.

I scrunch my eyebrows. That isn't what I usually hear after kissing someone. Granted, I haven't kissed many, but still. "My plane?" 

"You're going to miss your flight if you don't leave  _ now. _ " 

"B-but we—" 

" _ Go,"  _ he says, shoving me in the other direction. "I'll be here when you get back. We can talk about it then." 

"Right." I say, nodding and briskly running in the direction of the platform. (Am I supposed to be running for a platform? A queue? I'm clueless about where I'm going…)

I don't want to leave. I want to run back there and kiss him. Or slap him. I'm not sure which—my mind is reeling from everything that just happened. Everything fell into place so fast, I'm too flustered to form a coherent thought. 

I'm at least a third of the way to America before everything hits me properly. That I kissed Baz Pitch and confessed my love for him. 

Penny is going to think I've gone mental. I'm not sure I haven't. All I know is that I'm floating on air all the way to Chicago, in more ways than one.


	8. Chapter 8

**Simon **

"You've got to be joking me."

I bite my lip. "I really wish I was."

" _ Simon. _ "

"Penny I—"

"You just  _ left? _ After he  _ kissed you? _ !" 

I look down at the bright orange cloth that covers her kitchen table. Her, Micah, and I are all sat down and eating breakfast—pancakes drowned in syrup and topped with the fluffiest butter I've ever had. It's heavenly. I could eat this for every meal, and I wouldn't even care if I died from it.

Micah gives a low whistle before cutting off a bit of his pancakes. 

(I'm not bothering with a fork. I don't really need one—I'm just rolling up the pancake so I can dip it in the syrup like a stick.) 

(Baz would faint if he saw this.)

"What was I supposed to do?" I ask. "Miss your wedding? You said it yourself, Pen, you'd've killed me."

I wouldn't have wanted to miss the wedding, anyway. Even though I  _ did  _ want to stay with Baz, I wanted to see Penny even more. I  _ needed  _ to see her. The entire visit so far has been just what I needed, honestly. Her and Micah have been  _ so unbearably, adorably in love  _ since they picked me up from the airport, and it's nice to see them happy together. Even if it makes my heart fall apart, just a bit.

I was stressed for the first day or two, with everything that happened with Baz, but no one really noticed because of the hecticness of the wedding. I never knew how much could go wrong in one day, but it turns out there's a lot. Like Micah's dad forgetting to rent trousers to go with his suit, and being late to the wedding so he didn't show up in just a dress coat and his pants. Or when Penny's sister Pirya kept spelling everyone's shoes stuck to the dance floor.

Of course, it was a lovely wedding regardless. Micah's family have been nothing but nice, and it's good to see Mr. and Mrs. Bunce again, although I could have seen them just as easily back home. And I'm so happy for Penny and Micah. I actually got a bit choked up when I said a few words about the two of them during the reception, but so did Penny, so I feel less embarrassed about it. 

The wedding took my mind off of Baz for a while, but now that it's my last day here, I figured I needed to get it all off my chest. I haven't said  _ anything  _ about it. So I sat down with Penny and Micah and let out every disastrous thing that's happened since I moved in.

"You arrived early!" She exclaims. "You still would've made it! And really, I cannot believe neither of you have said anything to each other."

Micah snorts. "I can. From what I hear, the two of them can't communicate for shit."

I say,  _ "Sure we can" _ at the same time Penny says,  _ "He isn't wrong, Simon."  _

"Listen, Simon, he obviously feels the same way," Micah says. "But nothing is ever going to happen if the two of you don't talk about it. You know? It isn't healthy to keep kissing each other impulsively and then ignore it." 

I sigh and stuff some more pancake in my mouth. I don't like admitting that, yeah, maybe they've got a point. "But what if he  _ doesn't  _ feel the same way? I mean, he  _ laughed  _ at me. What if he kissed me because he wanted to give me a taste of my own medicine?"

Penny and Micah exchange a look. 

"Si, I don't think so. I know Baz, and I guarantee he wouldn't have crawled into bed with just anyone. If you ask me, it sounds like Baz has had feelings for you for a while now, too," Penny takes a sip of her tea (two spoons of sugar with a dollop of milk, just as she's always had it) and clears her throat. "If you acted like a complete git after you discovered your feelings for Baz, who's to say he wouldn't do the same?"

I shake my head. "Pen, that doesn't—" 

_ But it does. _ It makes sense, if you really think about it.

Being friends with Baz and being his enemy are, admittedly, pretty similar. He makes fun of you and he insults you—almost relentlessly—but then he asks if you want tea or the last packet of crisps. He'll call you a numpty brained prick, and then crawl into your bed and wipe away your tears. It's evident that he cares about you, even when he's insulting your intelligence. 

Well. That's what he does with me, at least. And if I repressed my feelings and acted like everything was fine, so much so that I fooled even  _ myself… _ is it really that crazy to think that maybe he's done the same? That our kiss wasn't a spur of the moment decision on his part? 

The rest of the day, he's all I can think about. His hair and his face and his laugh and the way his skin feels cool on mine. 

I only have one day left in America. I'm sad to be leaving Penny, but I'm itching to get home. 

To get to Baz. 

_ To get home. _

  
  


**Baz**

I've been in a near constant state of panic since Snow left.

My heart might've very well stopped completely when we kissed. Part of me wonders if it even happened—perhaps I've imagined everything. That I've finally gone mad, and the last few months have been completely made up.

Hopefully not. That would mean I'm standing here in this airport, ready to pick him up, for nothing. 

After almost half an hour, I finally spot him amongst the crowd of people. Shorts and a red hoodie, a grey suitcase dragging behind him. Even from where I stand, I can see the bags under his eyes, no doubt from the jet lag. He certainly  _ looks _ like he's been on a plane for twelve hours, but he's still Simon. He still looks good enough to drag into a bathroom stall and ravish. 

(I've been deprived since that kiss, since his confession. My mind hasn't been this occupied with dirty fantasies of Simon Snow since I was fifteen.)

"All right, Snow?"

"Fucking  _ awful," _ he growls. "I'm exhausted, and airport security gave me a rough go of it when I was boarding because of my wings. Penny spelled them invisible, but the scanner still picked them up, so security got all worked up over it—"

He grumbles on until we're both belted into my car and speeding down the motorway. 

"—and the  _ food. _ Baz, I've never had anything spicier than Micah's mum's cooking. She must spell it or something, because I almost died. It was  _ that  _ spicy."

(I must admit that I'm a little annoyed. It's quite the drive back to the flat, and I swear to Merlin himself, if I have to hear another thing about the food in America, I might crash the car.)

Maybe I did dream the kiss. 

Maybe that's why he hasn't said anything about it.

Maybe he's so embarrassed, he's pretending it never happened. 

Maybe he's just realized that he didn't mean any of it. Perhaps he found some pretty little American girl, and he'll start a nice proper family with her, and—

"So, uh. D'ya want to talk about...stuff?"

  
  


**Simon **

"It's nice to know you didn't leave your eloquence in America, Snow," Baz sneers from the driver's seat.

"Will you just piss off and answer the question?" 

I've been stalling this whole car ride. Normally when I'm nervous, I can't force the words out of my mouth, but right now I feel like I could give entire speeches. About anything. Albeit none of them would be good, and half of it would come out choppy and broken, but still. I could ramble on for hours if it meant avoiding this conversation. Which is exactly what Penny and Micah encouraged me  _ not  _ to do, and they're judgement is usually spot on.

"What is it you'd like to discuss? How much you suddenly love me?"

_ Merlin, _ he is such a wanker. 

"I told you. I fancy you. You don't—if you don't feel the same way? That's fine. I understand. But I'm guessing you have  _ some  _ feelings for me, since you, er, kissed me and all," I sound like such a numpty. (Why can't I say things poetically like he does? Baz could write sonnets. I could probably manage a sentence.)

  
  


**Baz**

Of course I feel the same way. Of course I wanted to kiss him. I've wanted to kiss him for  _ years. _ Of course, of course, of course.

"Maybe I do fancy you back, Snow, but that doesn't change any of this. How you've been treating me lately. I've just put myself through  _ two weeks  _ worth of torture because of your sexuality crisis—"

"Uh, Baz, you—"

"—Meanwhile, you've been out gallivanting in Illinois, of all _bloody_ _fucking _places, not even _bothering _to call or text after you've confessed to being in love with me—"

"Baz, you've just missed our slip road. _ " _

_ Fuck. _

Snow racks a hand through his messy mop of curls and sighs. "Maybe we should wait until we get home."

He's right, which pains me to admit. It's night time, and we're both tired; me from uni, him from jet lag. So I switch on the radio (some poppy feel good song, how dull) and it serves as a white noise until we arrive at the car park of our building. 

We settle in, once we get up to our flat. He takes a shower, I change into my pajamas and wait for him in the kitchen, where I've prepared tea. Finally he joins me, his hair still a bit wet from the water. I can smell his cheap soap fresh on his skin, and even though the scent is generic, I want to walk up to him and breathe it in. I want to mix his caramel apple scent with my cedar and bergamot and drown in it. 

I take a deep breath. "Snow…I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel the same way." 

His eyes light up, just the tiniest bit. 

" _ But,  _ you made it quite clear that you're straight," I say. "What happened to that? I don't want to just be a test run for you to figure out whether or not you like men."

"You aren't a test run. I like  _ you.  _ Does it matter if I said I was straight three weeks ago? That kiss wasn't exactly heterosexual. Not even the one at Christmas was, if I'm being honest."

"Plenty of people experiment, Snow. you wouldn't be the first straight boy I've made question his sexuality." 

Snow rolls his eyes and makes a sound of distaste (it's so low, it makes me wonder what other sounds he can make.) "Baz, you're all I can think about lately. I'm not here to mess with your feelings and then run. I'm never running away from you again. Promise. I made a mistake leaving you that Christmas and it's never stopped bothering me. I worried about you for four straight years. I think—I think if I could redo anything, I would go back and change that. I would have stayed, but I—I'd never kissed another bloke before. You know? It just shocked me, 's all. I didn't know that I wanted to kiss you. But I did. I do." 

"It isn't that easy," I shake my head. 

Snow throws his hands in the air in frustration. "Yes! It is! It's exactly that easy. You're just overthinking it." 

"Well one of us has to! You never fucking think!" 

"Will you  _ stop— _ you  _ fucking bastard—" _

"Oh, so one minute your begging to be my boyfriend, the next you're calling me a bastard? Pick one, Snow, if you have the brain cells to manage." 

"How rich, coming from  _ you. _ You claim to fancy me back, but y—you're constantly insulting me! How does that work?!"

His face is bright red, but his gaze is unwavering. So is mine. We stare at each other for ages, for so long that I'm afraid I've put him in some sort of thrall, until we can't stand it anymore. We both crack at the same time, letting out the smallest giggle, which turns into full blown laughter. It's mad. The both of us are mad, I swear it. We're practically clutching the counter for balance, we're so hysterical.

"What are we doing, Baz?" He asks, once we've gotten our wits about us again. 

(Well, I have. Snow never has his wits about him—it's charming.)

I shake my head. "I don't know, but we're awful at it." 

He gives a thoughtful little hum. "So what do you say? Do you want to be my boyfriend?" 

I look into his blue eyes. Unremarkable in every way, but they're Simon's, so they're the most beautiful I've ever seen. 

I look at his bronze curls. I think about how soft they are, how I twisted my fingers through them that night, weeks ago. How he let me. How maybe someday, he'll let me do it again. 

I think about every one of his qualities that I love—his bravery, his loyalty, his integrity. His passion for doing what's right. His willingness to sacrifice his magic, his  _ life, _ for the better good. 

(I think about all his quirks and traits I find annoying, too. Like how he has no concept of where to put things. His inability to properly use a knife and fork or restrain from putting his elbows on the table while eating. How bloody loud he snores.)

(It doesn't matter. I find most of them disgustingly endearing, anyway.)

He's serious. Simon bloody Snow is serious about wanting to be my boyfriend. It should be the easiest decision in the world, saying yes. And in some ways, it is. But I can't help the shred of insecurity that lingers in my mind.

"You're certain?" 

"I'm very certain."

We're standing close together—just a few more inches and our chests would be touching. I step just the smallest bit closer. 

"Prove it to me," I whisper. 

And he does. He kisses me for the third time, but it's nothing like anything that came before it. This is slow and gentle, and full of intention. Snow puts one hand on my shoulder, the other on my cheek. I place my both hands on his waist, wanting to melt into him completely.

This is the tenderest thing I've ever done with anyone. He's so much  _ better _ than anyone else _ . _ He kisses me like he's trying to tell me everything that he can't put into words. He kisses me like I'm someone worth being kissed. Like I'm someone worth being loved. 

Eventually, though, it turns into something more  _ aggressive.  _ My entire body feels like it's short circuiting. My mind is static and his name on repeat. Is this what he felt like when he used to go off? Like he had infinity in his chest pocket? We migrate down the hall to my room, and every second we're apart is a second too long. 

There's no doubt in my mind that I'll end up in hell, but if it means I get to kiss Simon Snow while I'm alive (or as alive as I can be), I'm not sure I mind very much.  _ This _ is my version of heaven. This is my paradise—pressed in between a mattress and Simon's chest, kissing him to my heart's content. Being kissed until  _ his  _ heart's content.

I wish I could go back to my fifth year self and tell him everything is going to be okay. That one day I'll finally get to snog Simon Snow until we're both sleepy and sated, wrapped up in each other's warmth.

***

When I wake up, I can feel him staring at me before I even manage to open my eyes. 

"It's not polite to stare, Snow."

"How did you know?" I can hear the frown in his voice. 

"It's the x-ray vision."

"Get fucked."

I sigh, all too content. "One thing at a time, Snow. Buy me dinner first, and then maybe we'll talk."

I open my eyes to the brightness of the morning. It's December, so sunlight isn't filtering through the blinds, but Snow's all the sunshine I'll ever need. 

Last night, he let me see every mole on his body. He let me kiss them all. The one on his neck is still my favorite. I think about kissing it.

I do.

"That was pretty gay," he says. 

I can hardly restrain from giggling. I must be off my bloody head. "You're such an idiot."

  
  
  


**Simon**

_ I snogged Baz Pitch _ .

Like, really, properly snogged him. It would have turned into something more if we weren't both so exhausted. 

Penny's going to freak out. 

I stare at him, and his silky raven hair, and his eyes that are still tired from sleep. I stare for so long, he must think I have something to say.

"Spit it out, Snow." 

"You called me Simon last night."

"No I didn't." 

"You're right," I smile cheekily. "It was more of a moan than anything."

He looks downright murderous, and all I can do is laugh. 

I feel a bit invincible right now. 

Baz Pitch fancies me.

So  _ fucking  _ sureal.

  
  


**Baz**

My mother would probably be rolling in her grave if she found out that I snogged the Mage's Heir. Fiona would probably slap me.

"You can't deny it. You called me Simon, like a great big softie," he's smiling like I've given him the stars. 

I would, if I had that much power. I'd give Simon Snow the entire galaxy and more. All he'd have to do is ask. Fuck not having the power, fuck any obstacle that would get in my way. I'd find some loophole that would let me give him anything he wanted.

I shift closer and kiss him. 

"Baz."

"Hm?"

"I—well. How long have you wanted this?" He puts a hand on my chest to push me away slightly. 

I lean in and kiss him again. He doesn't stop me. I could kiss him like this all day. 

"Fifth year," I mumble against his lips. 

Snow jerks his head away like I've electrocuted him. "What the hell do you mean  _ fifth year? _ You tried to kill me!" 

"No I didn't."

"You tried to steal my fucking voice."

I sigh. I don't like thinking about that, or what I did to that annoying Stanton girl.  _ I didn't want to. _ I didn't actually know what I was getting myself into when I told Fiona I'd do it. 

"That's not killing you, Snow, that's stealing your voice. There's a difference," I say, because I'd rather not ruin the moment by dwelling on mistakes I made when I was fifteen.

"Alright, fine. But you didn't exactly leave me unscathed," Snow frowns. I'm surprised he knows what unscathed  _ means. _ "You tormented me right up until our truce. What was that about?" He's looking like he did whenever he couldn't spit out the words to a spell in Elocution class. It's adorable. It's unbearable. 

"Couldn't let you catch on. I wasn't about to confess my feelings for you. Crowley, you would have killed me." 

"No I wouldn't've."

  
  


**Simon **

It's a lie and he knows it. 

Hell, if Baz had told me he had feelings for me when we first started living together, I would have probably threw something at him. 

"Well. Good thing you told me now, then," I chuckle. 

I don't really know what to do now. What to say...

Baz Pitch is my boyfriend. 

_ I have a boyfriend. _

Not a girlfriend. I didn't kiss a girl last night. I kissed Baz. Baz Pitch. Who has thrown me down a flight of stairs. Who set a chimera on me. Who almost got us both killed in a forest fire.

He's looking at me right now like I'm something he wants to eat. I always thought that meant he wanted to drain me. Turns out, it just means he wants to snog me until I can't remember my own name.

I'll worry about him being a bloke later. Right now I just want to be with him.

It's Saturday—neither of us have work or uni or anything. And while we  _ could  _ spend that time snogging, I'd rather just stay here in his bed. Maybe go back to sleep—it's not very early here, but it is in America, where my body is used to. Besides, Baz has always been one for sleeping in. I doubt he'd mind the extra hour or so of relaxation. 

I wrap an arm around his midsection, hoping that he stays like this. In my arms. Like they're the safest place in the world.

Because they are. And he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!! Thank you so much to everyone who's read and left kind comments/kudos, you have no idea how much it means to me lol. I'm not sure I should add an epilogue?? Is that something anyone would want??? Xx


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